


Dérive

by 136108



Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Inspired by 365 Fresh (Music Video), M/M, Road Trips, chan is a disaster but hides it well, chan is kinda hyojong but also hui, changbin and chan are gay messes, changbin is babie, changbin is kinda hui, diverges from the mv a lot especially the ending, jisung is babie, jisung is hyuna, jisung thinks he's straight but is he really, the characters dont map over perfectly its fine, very briefly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2020-05-29 16:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 54,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/136108/pseuds/136108
Summary: Changbin never thought he’d end up tailing it out of Busan in a stolen car filled with stolen cash. Jisung never thought he’d have to flee his home with blood on his hands. Chan never thought he’d find himself running for his life. None of them ever thought they’d end up together on a last-ditch road trip along the coast, trying to ignore the dreadful sense that they were running out of time.It didn’t matter that none of them were innocent. It didn’t matter that none of them, not even Chan, seemed to know where they were headed. It didn’t even matter that they’d probably end up getting caught. For now, they were all running from something, and they were together, and that was all they needed, really.





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love 3racha and i love triple h so i made this. also the 3racha tag is barren which is an absolute crime.

Changbin was so, so fucked.

He was running as fast as his legs would carry him, blood pounding in his ears. Every breath he took burned deep in his chest. As he sprinted down one of the side streets, he had no idea of where he was running to. All he knew were the footsteps of the men behind him—the men he was running from.

If they caught him, they would kill him. He knew that for sure. Maybe not tonight, but eventually. They might keep him alive long enough to sniff out where he’d hidden the money, but even if they got it back there was no coming back from what he was: a deserter, and a thief. A traitor.

And the Beongjae jo-pok didn’t take too kindly to traitors.

The footsteps behind him were getting louder—getting closer. _Fuck._ Changbin ignored the burning of his thighs, pushing his legs to pump faster. He hadn’t come all this way just to die at the hands of the very people he was trying to escape from. He skidded around a corner, legs almost giving out from underneath him. He didn’t have to outrun them, he just had to lose them, and hopefully buy himself enough time to make it out of the city.

Changbin hurtled around another corner, only to barely avoid running face-first into a second group of men. He sucked in a sharp gasp, but as if on instinct his body was already whirling around to go back in the opposite direction. But as he turned to run, he saw the men coming down the alley from behind him, and was reminded of who he’d been running from in the first place.

He was cornered. He was fucking cornered, and he was going to fucking _die_ —

Changbin forced his panic down, burying it deep where he could pretend it didn’t exist. Panting, he turned to face his pursuers, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Even in a hopeless situation, he couldn’t help but still try. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was some misplaced sense of optimism, but he couldn’t give up, not when he had been _so close_ to getting out _._

“Come on, man,” he pleaded breathlessly, faking a confidence he knew he had no right to feel. “I’m sure this has all been a misunderstanding—”

“Fuck off, Seo.” One of the men stepped forward, his face an impassive mask despite his words. When Changbin recognized him, he tensed. He’d seen this man—known only as Shin—in action. He was a step above just a debt collector for the Beongjae jo-pok; he was their hired killer. The first time he’d ever met the man, he’d watch him put a bullet into a man’s brain. No hesitation, no compassion. Just near-clinical speed and precision.

If _this_ was the man the Beongjae jo-pok had order after him, he was fucked.

“Shin, I don’t know who’s been telling you things about me, or what they’ve been telling you,” Changbin said, staring him right in his soulless eyes. “But you know me. You know I’m loyal—”

“Every man says they’re loyal.” Shin took a step forward, and it took everything in his power to stand his ground. “But few remain that way once there’s money involved.”

Shin took another step forward. Changbin’s heart had squeezed its way up into his throat, and he had to swallow before he could speak. He couldn’t see a gun, but that didn’t mean the man wasn’t armed. It didn’t mean he hadn’t been ordered here to kill him.

“Why would I try to skim from us, huh?” he asked, hoping that if he believed himself enough, Shin might too. “I run the entire Haeundae ring, Shin. I’m not exactly strapped for cash.”

Shin shrugged. “It’s my job to take care of loose ends, not figure out why they went loose in the first place.”

“Shin, I’m telling you, I’m not a loose end.” Changbin’s heart was thudding in his chest so loudly he was almost sure Shin could hear it, even from a few feet away. There was no doubt in his mind that if he didn’t get out of the city, and fast, Shin would kill him. Hell, there wasn’t even a guarantee that he wouldn’t kill him right then and there.

Whatever sincerity Changbin was trying to convey, Shin wasn’t buying it. He jerked his chin at the men on Changbin’s right, who stepped towards him.

Changbin panicked. “Shin, don’t do this,” he pleaded, even as the men grabbed his arms. “I’m telling you, I’m not an idiot, I’d never try to cross Beongjae—”

He was cut off by an explosion of pain across his nose, and he reeled back, too shocked to make any noise beyond a wheeze. Thick blood began to pour out of his nose and down his throat. Before he could even process what had just happened, a second blow glanced off of his cheekbone, whipping his head to the side. For a few seconds, the only thing Changbin was capable of doing was gasping in breath, too focused on the searing pain across his face. Then he pulled himself together, blinking back the watering in his eyes just in time to see Shin shaking out his hand dispassionately. There was a trace of blood on one of his rings—Changbin dimly registered the stinging of a cut on the bridge of his nose—that he wiped off, the blank mask of his face never once cracking.

“The only reason you’re still alive is because the money wasn’t in your apartment,” Shin said, not even looking at him. “You’ve got three days to get it back. Don’t bother running—you know we’ll find you, no matter where you try to hide.”

And with that, he turned and left. The men holding Changbin’s arms released them to go follow him wordlessly. None of them gave him so much as a second glance at they left, leaving him alone at the end of the alley, still braced against the wall.

Changbin slid down the wall to sit, though it was less of a conscious decision and more of his legs giving out now that he wasn’t being held on his feet. His stomach was still roiling from the sickening nausea of wondering if he was about to die. Leaning forward, he rested his head in his hands, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh that seemed to take all of his energy with it.

He knew he needed to get up, to move, but he couldn’t seem to manage it at that moment. He’d been so sure that Shin was going to kill him that his body hadn’t yet realized it was out of danger. And so he sat there, blood trailing out of his nose, staring at the ground numbly.

Shin had been both right and wrong in saying that the money wasn’t in his apartment—Changbin _had_ left it in his apartment, but not the one the Beongjae jo-pok knew he had. Instead, he’d left it at his place in the apartment complex where Jeongin lived.

Fuck, Jeongin. He knew he’d kept the boy enough of a secret that the Beongjae jo-pok wouldn’t go after him, but he couldn’t take Jeongin with him when he didn’t know if he was going to survive. He wouldn’t be able to contact him, either, at risk of the Beongjae jo-pok finding him.

If he hurried, he probably had enough time to drop off the portion of the money he’d intended for Jeongin before he had to leave. He also needed a way to get out of the city without them noticing him; his car or public transit was out of the question.

Fuck. He’d thought he’d have so much more time before he’d have to cut and run like this.

When Changbin first joined the Beongjae jo-pok, he’d just turned eighteen, and had arrived in Busan with nothing more than a pocketful of cash and the clothes on his back. It had been right after his parents had kicked him out, and he’d been full of righteous fury—had been so sure that he’d been wronged, and that the universe was going to give him his dues.

Then he’d tried to actually survive on his own, in a strange city with no job or shelter. Life had given him a hard dose of reality, and _fast_. All of his grand ideas of making it big, of being successful on his own, of sticking it to his parents—all of those went down the drain the very first night there, when he had to sleep on a fucking park bench. What little hope he’d had left had vanished the next day, when he discovered that looking like a bedraggled, homeless kid didn’t make for good job interviews.

The Beongjae jo-pok had descended upon him like a lifeline, at one of his most hopeless moments, and had promised a way out. All he had to do was help them deliver some packages, easy stuff, and they’d take care of him, would be the family he’d always wanted.

And because Changbin had been cold and tired and hungry, and because he’d been a stupid kid who hadn’t known better yet, he’d run straight into their welcoming arms.

At first, their jobs had been as innocent as they’d claimed. Sure, he'd been a drug runner, but he'd been mostly working in decent neighborhoods, and they'd kept him far enough away from the truly ugly shit. But the thing about the Beongjae jo-pok was that there was no escaping them; once you owed them even the slightest bit, they’d milk you dry until you had nothing left. And then you’d disappear.

So it hadn’t been enough for Changbin to help with their deliveries; after a few months, they’d begun asking more of him. He’d gone from delivering drugs to following up on those in debt to the jo-pok, and even though it didn’t feel _good_ to come home with bruised knuckles and the fearful faces of those he’d threatened imprinted in his mind, he’d told himself that he was helping the jo-pok.

Helping his family.

But that hadn’t been enough; he’d done a little _too_ well at his job, and the Beongjae jo-pok had a lot of need for someone who was quick with their fists and had the soft of cold confidence that he was capable of summoning at will. He was good at intimidation, or so he'd been told. So they'd forced him into more and more violent roles, slowly pushing him higher and higher up in the ranks. Each time, he'd become more and more entangled in the web of the organization—more and more trapped.

By the time he'd found an opportunity to start working towards his escape, he’d been in the Beongjae jo-pok for five years, and had been running his own ring for three out of those five. He’d been a fixture of the jo-pok for long enough that they trusted him.

And so he’d begun skimming profits. He’d only taken tiny percentages of their monthly earnings, but Haeundae was one of the richest, most touristy districts in Busan, and that tiny percent was a shit ton of money. And it added up, fast.

But Changbin had been biding his time for years and years, and he didn’t want to rush himself with the end so near in sight. So he’d kept himself from being too hasty; had taken his portions of cash with the intention of waiting it out, collecting a good amount, and escaping only when the perfect opportunity presented itself.

And then all this shit had happened.

He still had no idea how he’d been found out—none of the other people involved could have ratted him out without also implicating themselves. Changbin had been smart about this. Had planned this for years. He’d only involved those who were absolutely necessary; those who were just as trapped as he was. The Beongjae jo-pok wouldn’t have forgiven any of his select few for their own transgressions just because they’d ratted him out; he’d made sure that everyone involved knew that. In return, he’d put together the plan for them, had allowed them to skim their own (smaller) amounts under his watch.

He’d had a perfect plan for how this would work out, and of course it had gone horribly wrong.

But there was no time for him to cry over the ruins of his carefully-planned escape from the Beongjae jo-pok, or try to figure out how they’d found him out. Changbin grabbed the hem of his T-shirt, thanking the universe that it was black, and set about cleaning the blood from his face. Then he collected himself and stood up.

It was time to steal himself a car.

* * *

Changbin stole for the first time—that he remembers, anyways—when he was six years old.

His family had been living in Seoul at the time, and he’d seen a baseball cap in a brightly-lit clothing store while downtown with his mother. It was a pale pink, with a white floral print, and had two silver rings hanging from the brim. To his six-year-old eyes, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he’d needed it right then and there.

He’d had little concept of money or property, and had simply shoved the cap over his head when his mother wasn’t looking. She’d only noticed after they’d gotten halfway home. When she yelled at him about how it was bad to steal, she had grabbed his shoulders and shaken them so violently his teeth clacked together on his tongue, biting clean through it. That had hurt, but even then he couldn’t shake just how _good_ it had felt to steal it. Every single one of his possessions were things that his parents had pre-approved for him, had bought for him; this hat was something he’d picked out himself. In stealing it, he’d bypassed his parents’ approval, and because of that it felt like it was truly _his_.

That wasn’t to say that Changbin was some sort of kleptomaniac as a small child, but the feeling of having something that was his, and his alone, never quite left him. Once he was in high school, going through one of several stages of rebellion, shoplifting served as an easy way to stick the finger to his parents. Every time he brought home something he knew his parents would disapprove of—every time his father’s lips thinned with disapproval when he looked at him—he felt a sick sense of satisfaction.

It didn’t help that Changbin was _good_ at it. He was good under pressure; whenever he was in the middle of taking something, an unnerving sense of calm would wash over him, draining away any trace of fear or anxiety. He’d carry the deed out in a sort of trance, awash in nothing but cool confidence, and it was only once he had gotten away with it that the adrenaline would kick in. And he _always_ got away with it.

He supposed that now, with the Beongjae jo-pok after him, he’d technically been caught.

Once.

But he got away with stealing the car that he needed—so easily that it was almost laughable. He’d had to scrub the blood from his face before he’d be allowed in the nightclub, sure, but once he’d gotten in it had taken him less than five minutes to spot his targets. The two girls he laid eyes upon at the bar weren’t particularly drunk. One of them had, however, decided it was a good idea to leave her keys out on the bar, next to her drink.

He’d come up behind them, throwing his arms around both of them and stumbling forward with his weight in his best imitation of someone who isn’t quite blackout drunk, but is getting there. He addressed both of them—some rudimentary and crude invitation—but spoke into the main target’s ear to better distract her from his sleight of hand.

Predictably, she cringed away from him in disgust and irritation, but he was already backing off, one of his hands raised in the universal “I-mean-no-harm gesture.” Unnoticed, the other hand slipped her keys into his back pocket.

He only withdrew the keys once he was entering the parking garage a few floors down, taking note of the security camera in the corner next to him as he did. The entire affair had been so brief—and so easy—that he couldn’t help but smile cockily, twirling the keys around his fingers a few times before pressing the button to unlock the car.

Neither of the girls had seemed particularly wealthy, so he was unsurprised when the chirping noise of the car unlocking led him to an unassuming beige sedan. He felt no rush, no anxiety—the girls were drunk enough that they wouldn’t notice the theft for a while, and he knew where to tilt his face so that the shadows would render him unidentifiable to the security cameras. It was nice to be able to take his time, searching the trunk and glove compartment for any phones or other traceable devices. Once he knew there were none, he leisurely stepped into the car and took off.

There were probably cameras at the establishment’s entrance, so he took a detour for a few blocks, heading in the opposite direction of his destination. Only then did he turn the car back around, heading for the apartment the Beongjae jo-pok didn’t know of.

Now that he’d neatly gotten away with the car theft, the adrenaline of his success was wearing off enough for the reality of his situation to come sinking in around him once more. He’d driven this way a thousand different times, a thousand different ways. He was used to checking for tails and taking wandering paths in case he was being followed. But that had always been a precaution; just in case he needed a secret in the future—a place where the Beongjae jo-pok wouldn’t know to look for him.

This time was different. This was the worst case scenario, and his secret had saved his life. Without it, the Beongjae jo-pok would have found the money, and Shin would have killed him. That was the truth, plain and simple. Hell, there was no guarantee he’d actually survive this; but this secret was giving him a fighting chance, something he never would’ve had otherwise.

He was a little wistful walking up the steps to this secret apartment, knowing that it would be the last time he ever saw it. He hadn’t spent much time there—otherwise the Beongjae jo-pok would’ve noticed and gotten nosy—but it was a safer place for him than anywhere else in the city.

And it had Jeongin.

To be honest, he didn't know Jeongin incredibly well, but he was probably the only genuine person Changbin had a relationship with in all of Busan. He'd met him completely by chance; he had no ties to any jo-pok or any illegal activity. He'd simply been a kid living in a shitty apartment, paying shitty rent and working shitty jobs to try to save up for school. To Changbin, he represented everything that being a part of the Beongjae jo-pok had forced him away from, had rendered forbidden. Jeongin was sweet and funny and had fucking _braces_ , for god's sake, and even though they were just neighbors at an apartment Changbin didn't even live in, he sometimes thought that Jeongin was the little brother he'd never had.

Changbin didn't bother being quiet as he used the spare key Jeongin had given him to let himself into the boy's apartment. At this time of night, Jeongin should have been asleep, like other kids his age; instead, he was no doubt out at a night shift at one of his many odd jobs. He was always working too hard, eyebags such a constant characteristic of his face that it sometimes seemed as if he’d been born with them.

Even though this entire situation was one giant clusterfuck that was probably going to get him killed, leaving the money-laden duffel bag in Jeongin's bedroom gave him a sharp sense of satisfaction. It had enough money that Jeongin could quit all his jobs—could probably go a long time without having to work at all, if he managed it right. He’d definitely be able to start college, like he’d always wanted. He could move out of this shitty apartment, into some place where the doors latched properly and the heat worked in the dead of the winter.

Jeongin would probably hate him for leaving, would hate him even more if he got himself killed because of it, but Changbin couldn't bring himself to regret anything. There was no way he could've lived with himself if he'd passed up a chance to get Jeongin into college and get himself out of the Beongjae jo-pok. That was the one thing Changbin was certain of.

Aside from the duffel, the only trace of himself Changbin left in Jeongin’s apartment was a short note. He knew it would be too vague to satisfy him, but he prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that Jeongin would take the hint and not go looking for him. Maybe, years in the future, if he didn’t die horribly at the hands of the Beongjae jo-pok, he’d be able to see him again.

Maybe.

But for now, there was little time to think about futures or maybes. All that was left was for Changbin to lug the remaining duffel bag down the staircase. He had nothing else with him. There were no other possessions in the apartment that warranted being brought along; he’d rarely left any hints of his presence there in the first place, and he certainly didn’t have the time to get sentimental.

He thankfully ran into no one in the staircase or the hallway; he’d failed to anticipate just how goddamn _heavy_ a couple billion won would be. The duffel alone must have weighed close to fifty pounds; a manageable but still unwieldy weight. The sight of him, all bruised and dressed head-to-toe in black, face buried under the brim of a hat, would have definitely caused someone to take notice. He couldn’t afford that.

The enormity of what he was doing hadn’t hit him yet by the time he slammed the trunk closed on the duffel and got back into the driver’s seat. He was still in the same cocky high that he got when he was stealing something and getting away with it, his fingers steady in their grip on the wheel and his shoulders relaxed. He was distantly aware that he should be panicking, should be terrified of what was ahead of him.

But in that moment, there was nothing in his mind but the road in front of him—the way out of Busan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we meet jisung!


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for attempted rape applies to this chapter

Jisung turned when the bell above the door to the barbershop rang, plastering his best customer service smile onto his face. Silently, he cursed to himself; he’d been literal _seconds_ away from going home. “I’m sorry, but we’re closed—” he started, faltering to a stop once he saw who it was.

“I’m sure you can make an exception,” said Kim Seojun, grinning as he sauntered forward. It was probably supposed to come off as charming, but instead Jisung was distinctly reminded of a beady-eyed shark.

The hairs on the back of Jisung’s neck rose. Seojun, he knew, was high up in the Cheolgwon jo-pok—way, _way_ high up. Jisung might manage the barbershop, might oversee the exchanges that went on in the back room, but for Seojun, the shop was just one of the Cheolgwon jo-pok’s many shell companies. He only visited it around once a month, as part of a routine check, or on the odd occasion when Jisung was asked to make a particularly large deposit. Whenever he did, Jisung would swallow down his nerves and give Seojun his biggest smile as he showed him around and gave his report, doing his best to keep the man placated.

But Seojun had been there just earlier that week; that night, there was no reason for him to be there. Especially after hours. Especially alone.

Now, Jisung knew the barbershop. He wasn’t the only employee there, but he was the only one the Cheolgwon jo-pok trusted to accept drop-offs and to make deposits at the local bank. It was simpler that way: if someone wanted to get cash into a bank account, they knew to ask for Jisung at the barbershop. And the Cheolgwon jo-pok knew who to look for, if any of the money ever disappeared.

For them, it was simple; for Jisung, it was terrifying. He kept a tight control of the money that passed through the barbershop, because it was his ass—and his alone—that was on the line if any funny business happened. He made sure that nothing, absolutely nothing, even _touched_ the money from the time it was given to him to the time he dropped it off at the bank. He’d made a deposit two days ago, no issue, and was due to make another one the next day. That money was currently sitting in the safe in the back room; out of paranoia, he’d counted it just hours earlier. It had been all there.

So Jisung _knew_ that there couldn’t be any money missing. But he couldn’t imagine any other reason Seojun would be here.

He wet his lips, trying not to show his nerves. “What brings you here?” he asked. Unable to stop himself, he added, “Is something wrong?”

“Ah, no, no,” Seojun laughed, waving a hand. Jisung tried his best not to breathe out a visible sigh of relief. Holy fuck, he’d been so tense. “I’m not here for business. I just wanted to see you.”

Jisung blinked in surprise. Now that was weird. Seojun had always seemed to enjoy his company—had always stayed a bit longer than he technically had to during his visits—but they’d never seen each other outside of a work environment before. Still, he needed to be friendly, so Jisung gave him a grin, leaning forward against the cash register.

“What?” he teased. “Can’t get enough of me?”

Seojun didn’t laugh, and Jisung’s smile slowly slid off his face. The silence stretched on between them for just a little too long, and there was an unreadable look in Seojun’s eyes that made Jisung want to crawl out of his skin. Oh crap, he’d taken it too far with the joke, when would he learn to maybe _think_ every now and then before he spoke—

“I think I’d like a shave.”

Jisung froze for a second—first Seojun was dropping by unannounced, then asking for his services as a barber? It had been at least a week since Jisung had taken an actual customer; they only took enough to keep up appearances. That wasn’t to say Jisung didn’t know what he was doing—he had to be believable, after all, just in case—but it had been a while. Seojun knew all about just how “legitimate” the barbershop was, too, so it was even stranger for him to make such a request.

Seojun seemed to be waiting for him to reply, and so he pushed back his reservations and wordlessly gestured to a chair, stepping over to his rack of supplies. He was hardly in a position to make the man angry.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, trying to keep the unease out of his voice.

He felt more than heard it when Seojun came up behind him, a hand coming to rest on his hip. “Wet shave, straight-edge,” the man practically purred, his breath hot against his ear.

He _really_ did not have a handle on personal space, and he’d been making Jisung uncomfortable the entire time he’d been there. Jisung was in no position to do anything but give Seojun what he wanted. In this line of work, Jisung was way too expendable for his own good. Being fired would be the best-case scenario if he angered Seojun; he didn’t want to think too hard about all of the other, far worse, ways he could be punished. There were certain benefits to working under the radar of the law, but that was definitely one of the downsides.

So he needed to keep Seojun happy. Luckily, if there was one thing Jisung excelled at, it was people—knowing what they wanted, and how to give it to them. Seojun seemed like the kind of person who surrounded himself with those who validated him—who allowed him to keep up his persona of a handsome, cunning, and above all, powerful, man. He also seemed like the kind of man to turn dangerous and vindictive when scorned or shunned. In order to keep him happy, Jisung needed to humor him, even if some of his behavior was off-putting.

So, his face slightly flushed, Jisung snatched up a bottle of cleanser and turned around. Seojun hadn’t stepped back, and they were uncomfortably close. “Why don’t you just take a seat, and I’ll get started,” he said with a forced smile, looking anywhere but Seojun’s eyes.

Once the man had seated himself, Jisung got to work, trying to treat Seojun as if he were any other client. He wrapped the hot towel around Seojun’s face, and as he did so, he began to talk.

If there was another thing Jisung was good at, it was talking. He’d always been loud and chatty, even as a little kid. He’d hated silences, and would try to fill them with whatever jokes and anecdotes he could. Over the years, with practice, he became a master at it. He could have entire one-sided conversations that lasted for hours, which came in handy when he had to keep up appearances at the barbershop by taking in clients.

So Jisung filled the silence between him and Seojun with stories about anything and everything. He chattered away about a nightmare customer he’d gotten at the convenience store where he worked on Saturdays, about the cat belonging to his next door neighbor that wouldn’t stop leaving dead mice in the hallway, about the heavenly pistachio muffin he’d had that morning. Seojun, though unable to speak, would hum or huff out a laugh at just the right moments. Jisung knew that he was a good storyteller, and Seojun had always seemed to enjoy listening to him prattle on during his monthly checkups. He wanted Seojun to be happy with him—if only so he didn’t end up dead in a ditch somewhere—so he was happy to talk all night if it meant that Seojun would be satisfied.

When he had taken off the towel and was swirling the brush in the shaving cream, Jisung noticed that Seojun had only the barest hint of five o’clock shadow. It was likely that he’d shaved just that morning, and with a high-quality razor, too, confirming his suspicions that the shave was more of an excuse to stop by the barbershop.

A little chill began at the base of his neck, crawling its way down his spine. Jisung shook it off and focused more on the task in front of him, pursing his lips in concentration as he took up the straight-edged razor and set to work. Slipping up and nicking or cutting Seojun simply wasn’t an option. Thankfully, the barbershop got enough high-end clients that Jisung was experienced at using this kind of razor. He swept it across Seojun’s skin in steady, careful strokes, using his free hand to pull the skin taut as he did so.

He was so focused on completing the shave well that he fell into an almost meditative state. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he had finished and was applying a light moisturizer—the final step—to Seojun’s face. It couldn’t have been the first time he’d gotten a shave like this, because he seemed to know right when Jisung was done, getting up immediately.

Jisung retreated back towards the counter, wiping the blade clean and setting it down. “So,” he began tentatively, as Seojun examined himself in the mirror. “Are you satisfied?”

Seojun hummed and turned back towards him. The unreadable look was back in his eyes.

“Very,” he purred, and something in his voice caused all of the alarms to go off in Jisung’s brain. Slowly, hoping that Seojun wouldn’t notice, he backed up until the edge of the counter was digging into his lower back. What was it about his gaze that was bothering him so—

_Oh._

Jisung was an idiot for not having realized sooner. It wasn’t that he’d never received attention like that before. But it had always been in the form of girls his age, or little old ladies, things like that—where it was either flattering or funny, and always, _always_ harmless.

But Seojun was a _man,_ a man who was probably much stronger than he was, who was stepping closer to him, and he had nowhere to go, nowhere to run—

Then Seojun put his hands on his hips, and all of the panicked thoughts flitting around in Jisung’s mind ground to a halt. He sucked in a sharp breath, his muscles locking up out of sheer terror. Time seemed to slow around him, all of his surroundings falling away until all he could focus on was Seojun in front of him. It felt so _wrong,_ the hands gripping him uncomfortably tightly, his body protesting as if Seojun’s fingers were burning holes through his shirt and into his skin.

“You’re a smart boy,” Seojun said, voice rough and low. “So you’re gonna be good for me, yeah?”

His breath was sickeningly hot and wet against Jisung’s face. He wanted to flinch away but he had no room to, nor did he dare. His eyes were dark and hooded and Jisung felt like he was drowning in them, helpless and suffocating and terrifying all at once.

It took a few seconds, as frightened as he was, for the words to register in Jisung’s brain. Once they did, he shuddered in fear; the threat underlying those words, of what might happen if he _wasn’t_ good for him, was all-too clear. Seojun knew didn’t need to voice any details—any violence, or promises of death—for the message to come across. And there was no doubt that he would follow through on his threats if he wanted to; it was impossible to be that high up in the Cheolgwon jo-pok without having blood on your hands.

To his mortification, tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. “Please,” he gasped, desperation laced into every syllable. “Please, don’t—”

Seojun’s hands slid up to encircle his waist, pressing in slightly, and then harder, and then he was lifting him up. Jisung inhaled sharply in shock as he was set down to sit on the edge of the counter, his hands blindly scrabbling for purchase behind him.

A smile tugged viciously at the corners of Seojun’s lips as he pressed forwards, nudging his way between Jisung’s knees to lean in against his throat. Jisung instinctively tried to move back, to lean away from his approach, but a hand slid up from his waist to latch around the back of his neck. Pinned in place at his waist and his throat in this way, he could do nothing but let out a quiet sob when Seojun leaned in to brush his lips against the skin just below his jaw.

“So pretty,” he murmured, his breath hot and vile against Jisung’s skin. “Been wanting you for months, you’re such a _tease—_ ”

At those words, Jisung began to cry even harder. It was hitting him that this whole time, he’d gravely misinterpreted Seojun’s intentions. He’d thought Seojun kept coming back because of his business; now, he was doubting whether or not Seojun had ever actually needed to set foot in the barbershop himself, or if it had just been part of his desire to see him. And every time Jisung had ignored the warning in his gut, had flashed his brightest smile and laughed as loud as he could, he’d been unknowingly egging Seojun’s ego on. He’d even fucking _teased_ him about coming by so often, oh god—

“Please,” he begged, vision blurry with tears. “Please, I’ve never—with a man—I’m not—”

Seojun drew back to study him. Jisung breathed a little sigh of relief; even though he hadn’t been let go, the distance between them was welcome.

It was also, unfortunately, short-lived; he could see the realization dawn on Seojun’s face, followed closely by a wide grin that made him want to disappear into the floor. He leaned back, bracing one of his hands on Seojun’s shoulders in a futile attempt to keep him away, even as the man leaned in closer.

“You’re not what, hmm?” Seojun crooned, his thumb rubbing against the side of Jisung’s throat.

“I’m—” Jisung was having trouble breathing, let alone speaking. “I’m not _gay.”_

The words hung between them for a moment. Jisung didn’t dare breathe, his heart beating so frantically in his chest it was a wonder Seojun didn’t seem able to hear it. Then, to his horror, Seojun laughed, low and soft.

“Sure you aren’t, baby,” he said, like he didn’t _believe_ him, and pressed their lips together.

Jisung’s eyes widened in shock. He tried to turn his head to the side, but Seojun slid the hand on his neck up into his hair and gripped it tightly, almost painfully, so that he couldn’t move. He’d never—he had kissed a guy maybe once, or twice, in his entire life, had known it wasn’t really for him just from that. But this? This was so much worse even than what he’d remembered, all teeth and force; it felt more like Seojun was trying to crush him than kiss him.

“Love your hair,” Seojun panted against his lips, his fingers curling into the strands as he spoke. “It’s so pretty, just like you, baby.”

Jisung whimpered, cringing back. He’d only dyed it blue last week; he’d been so happy with the color, but now he wished he was blond, brunette, anything but fucking _blue_ if that was what Seojun liked. Everything in him was repulsed by the idea of looking the way that Seojun wanted him to, of doing things to please him in _that_ way. Oh god, he could remember how Seojun had complimented him when he first saw the dye job, the way he had looked at him; how had he been so oblivious?

Seojun angled his head slightly, trying to deepen the kiss. When Jisung refused to part his lips, numb with terror, he let out a frustrated noise and pushed his body in closer between Jisung’s legs. With a whimper, Jisung instinctively tried to bring his legs together, but only succeeded in clenching his thighs around Seojun’s hips.

“Fuck, just like that, yeah,” Seojun panted.

His face instantly flushed red with mortification, and Jisung snapped his legs open, disgusted by the thought of contributing to his pleasure. There was no way in hell he was going to make this any more enjoyable for Seojun than it already was.

Seojun took advantage of his spread legs to grind his hips forward.

Jisung felt, in agonizing detail, the press of the man’s cock against his crotch, and lost it.

He was too pinned to do anything with his legs, but his hands were free, so he brought one up to try and claw at Seojun’s face, the other one searching the countertop behind him.

Seojun effortlessly caught the hand trying to scratch him, looking almost amused. “Feeling feisty, are we?” he asked, undeterred, before latching on to the base of Jisung’s throat and sucking, hard.

Jisung yelped in pain and surprise, trying to dig his fingernails into Seojun’s palm. One of his hands made contact with something behind him, and the second he realized what it was, he wrapped his hand tightly around it and brought it up in front of him.

He felt more than heard the slick slide of the razor as it cut through Seojun’s neck.

For a second, neither of them moved. Then Seojun was choking, letting go of Jisung in order to clamp his hands around his throat. Jisung was left sitting on the counter, frozen in shock. Straight-edged razors weren’t like knives; they were shit in a fight, because you had to angle them perfectly in order to make a cut. He’d immediately grasped onto the razor as his only weapon, but even as he’d drawn it across Seojun’s neck, a large part of him had been convinced it wouldn’t work.

But it _had_ worked, because blood was spurting out between Seojun’s fingers, and his legs were crumpling, sending him to the ground.

In the seconds it took for Seojun to fall, Jisung realized two things:

One, Seojun wasn’t a threat to him in his current state.

Two, and most importantly, Seojun was bleeding out on the floor of his barbershop, and if he died, Jisung was so, _so_ fucked.

Jisung realized that he was still clutching the razor, his knuckles white around the handle, and tossed it away with a gasp. Then, his hands shaking with newfound fear and adrenaline, he grabbed a towel and slid off the counter to drop to his knees by Seojun’s side.

Seojun’s eyes were staring up past him, at the ceiling, as he thrashed around on the floor, choking. Jisung tore his hands away from where they were clutching at his neck and tried to get a look at the wound, but there was too much blood and oh god what if he _died—_

Giving himself a little shake, Jisung blinked back his tears and covered the wound with the towel, pushing down with both hands. That’s what he was supposed to do, right? Put pressure on the wound, to stop the bleeding? Oh god, but there was so much bleeding and it wasn’t showing any signs of stopping, and he hadn’t wanted to kill Seojun he had just wanted him to _stop touching him._

Jisung wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, shaking and sobbing and doing his best not to crush Seojun’s windpipe. All he could think about was how expensive Seojun’s suit was, and how many bodyguards he always had, and how many businesses within the Cheolgwon jo-pok he owned. There was no way Seojun wasn’t a member of the inner circle—no way that he wasn’t the kind of person that was supposed to be untouchable.

He’d never been explicitly told the punishment for killing one of the Cheolgwon jo-pok’s higher ups, but he suspected that what Seojun had been trying to do to him would pale in comparison. When he’d joined the Cheolgwon jo-pok he’d known how cruel they could be; it was impossible to live in Busan and not know stories of their ruthlessness. He’d promised himself that he’d stay safe, wouldn’t try to work his way up the ranks, wouldn’t break any of their rules. He’d wanted to stay clean—at least, as clean as one could stay while laundering money for a crime syndicate.

Jisung felt a bit of hysterical laughter bubble up amidst the tears. He’d cut Kim fucking Seojun’s throat; he was doing _such_ a good job of that.

Seojun twitched underneath his hands, and he started. He’d gotten so caught up in his head that he’d forgotten to check in on him; he’d lost a lot of blood, but he’d remained conscious the entire time. Ever so carefully, holding his breath, Jisung lifted the towel up to check on the wound underneath.

He was still bleeding, but the flow of blood was considerably slower than it had been earlier. Jisung let out a sigh of relief, slumping a little. He was still absolutely screwed, and the Cheolgwon jo-pok was definitely still going to be out for his head, but he might escape becoming a murderer.

There was no time for him to try and hope, though. He needed to get out, and get out now; any head start he could get on the Cheolgwon jo-pok would help him. Every minute he had to run, while they still didn’t know, increased his chance of survival.

He had the sense, at least, to tip off the police before leaving. If Seojun was still alive when they got there, they’d get him to a hospital. And hopefully, by involving the police, he could slow the Cheolgwon jo-pok down; he was sure they weren’t overly eager to have the police department snooping around in their farce of a business.

A small voice in the back of Jisung’s voice whispered that it would be stupid to leave the murder weapon, complete with his fingerprints, at the scene. He told it to shut up, that Seojun wasn’t actually dead, that he might survive. But it was enough of a niggling doubt for him to bend down and snatch it up, tucking it into his jeans pocket.

He took one last glance at Seojun as he stood in the doorway, heart thudding with renewed adrenaline. Then he turned and, careless of the blood coating his arms and his front, ran out into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter we get to meet chan!!


	3. Chapter Three

Chan had been lying on the sofa, completely motionless, for close to three hours by the time the hunger pains tugging at his stomach forced him to get up. He’d been hungry since yesterday, but was procrastinating getting food because he knew his kitchen was barren and the idea of somehow leaving the house had seemed overwhelmingly impossible at the time.

It got like this, sometimes; he hadn’t left his house in five days, and hadn’t slept in nearly two. His time was mostly spent in his bed or on the sofa, because when he felt like this everything just became too much, even the idea of moving or standing. He’d watch reruns of Friends. Listen to music. Most of the time, he’d just stare aimlessly at the ceiling, not really thinking of anything in particular.

He couldn’t sleep, but not because he wasn’t tired. He was exhausted—the kind of crippling, mind-numbing exhaustion that couldn’t be caused from a lack of sleep alone. And it wasn’t because his mind was busy, because there were no thoughts rushing through his head, only a blank emptiness that filled every crevice of his consciousness. It was so all-encompassing that even the quiet could seem deafeningly loud, sometimes.

There were few things that could get him up when he was like this, but pissing and eating were two of them. Each time, he’d become aware of the pressure on his bladder or the twinging of his stomach, but still he’d wait. And wait. And wait. Only when he felt about to explode, or when the cramps made it hard to breathe, would he take a deep breath, and force himself up, just for long enough to take care of it.

So he needed to eat, but there was no food on the house. So he had to go out.

So.

The thing about going out was that he couldn’t just leave, even if he wanted to. Going out meant being seen in public, which meant that his two-day-old shirt and greasy, unwashed hair were unacceptable. Granted, it was three in the morning, and he wouldn’t see very many people, but he’d gotten thrown out—of his _own_ apartment building—one time a few months back. He’d looked so disheveled that the receptionist hadn’t believed him when he’d said he lived there.

At this moment, he was wishing he’d instead picked some hole-in-the-wall place where no one would care about whether or not he looked neat enough to believably live there. But he couldn’t risk attracting that kind of attention—especially on the security cameras installed in the lobby—and so that meant he needed to get his shit together enough to take a shower. And change.

This was why he’d left his bedroom earlier that night, but he hadn’t made it further than the sofa before the temptation to lay back down overtook him. And maybe it was a bit pathetic to need three hours to psych yourself up enough to take a shower, but he couldn’t help it. Everything about him just felt slow. Heavy.

When he finally bit the bullet and pushed himself up to head to the bathroom, it felt as if he were trudging through molasses. It was everything he could do to just focus on the effort of putting one foot in front of the other. His arms protested every movement—taking off his shirt, washing his hair—feeling more like useless deadweights than actual limbs. His fingers were numb.

After he was done, he pulled on the first clean clothes he could find from his closet, with little regard to whether or not they matched. Then he walked to the door, and hesitated only slightly before opening it, which probably counted as the most productive he’d been at doing anything in a week.

The convenience store down the road was one of the sorriest things Chan had seen in his life—he was pretty sure not a single one of its windows were intact, and had once seen a mouse towards the back—but it was close, and probably didn’t have security cameras, and that was all he needed. Its staff seemed to be in a state of constant rotation, because he had never seen the same person twice. That was good, too; if anyone ever came asking about him, there would be no one who remembered enough to tell.

It might be a bit paranoid to choose everything, down to a convenience store, in this way, but Chan was proud of just how untraceable he’d made himself. Chan organized his life to fit into spaces that were seldom noticed, and never remembered. In every possible way, he was as unremarkable as you could get.

Bang Chan was forgettable. He’d grown up overseas, sure, but went to college in Seoul, dropped out, and had been in Busan ever since. He didn’t travel, didn’t go outside much, and had a perfectly clean record. He lived in a nondescript apartment, with normal neighbors, and wore boring clothes. He had no social media, no online presence.

Most importantly, there was no connection between Bang Chan and CB97.

He paid in cash, as he always did—all of his money was either stored safely in offshore accounts, or withdrawn immediately as cash, to avoid leaving a trail. The tired-eyed cashier barely seemed to notice his presence, only glancing up at him once while scanning his items before finding him uninteresting and looking back down.

The streets were completely deserted, and he was almost grateful that it had taken him as long as it had to get his shit together. Already, being out in the open made his skin crawl. He knew, realistically, that no one was following him or watching him, but that didn’t stop his heart from pounding and his palms from sweating every time he had to leave his apartment. When other people were around—every single one of them potentially a threat—it made it all that much harder for him to be out. It was better like this, when he was alone.

He made it through the lobby and up the elevator by keeping his head down so the receptionist couldn’t see the bags under his bloodshot eyes. Then he looked down the hall at his door, and his heart froze up in his chest.

Bang Chan had always been untraceable. CB97 had never been caught.

But his door was ajar, and he _knew_.

Adrenaline surged through him, all of his sluggishness falling away until he felt more awake than he’d felt in weeks. He immediately turned around, gripping the handle of his grocery bag until his knuckles turned white, and made his way back down the hallway towards the elevator as quickly and silently as possible. With the dead silence surrounding him and the straining of his ears to pick up any noise, every little crinkle of his grocery bag seemed as loud as a gunshot.

The security camera at the end of the hall had been disabled, and he hastened his pace, ducking around the corner. He knew he couldn’t go back down to the lobby, not when he didn’t know who’d broken into his apartment. If it was the police, he couldn’t risk it—there might be more of them downstairs, waiting to flush him out, or the receptionist might be on the lookout for him. He couldn’t know for sure how long they’d been there, but they were probably looking for him. If they hadn’t left yet it was either because they hadn’t realized he wasn’t there, or because they were waiting for him to come back.

Either way, he wouldn’t know until he could catch a glimpse of them. So all that he could do, for that moment, was wait.

How ironic was it that, after being unable to muster up the energy to move for so long, it was now killing him to hold still? Every moment felt like an eternity, his nerves wound so tightly he could barely breathe. His breath caught in his throat every time a door closed, or the elevator dinged, every noise bringing the threat of the intruders passing by. His mind raced with a whirlwind of rambling, panicked thoughts and unanswered questions. How long were they going to spend in his apartment? What were they doing? Were they looking for something?

Footsteps began to make their way down the hall, after what felt like an eternity had passed, and Chan was finally able to _do_ something. He tugged his hood up to cover his face and quickly retreated a bit further down the hall, away from the elevator. Stopping at a random door, he took out his key. He waited for a few seconds, letting the footsteps draw closer, only inserting the key when he knew they would be passing by. For all intents and purposes, he’d look like a random resident returning to their apartment; they wouldn’t be sticking around for long enough to realize that he never actually opened the door.

Chan turned his head to the side slightly, just enough so that his face would still be in shadow, and snuck a glance at a single man as he passed by. He was just fast enough to catch the glimpse of a silencer as the man tucked a handgun into his jacket.

His blood ran cold. He knew that man, and he wasn’t police.

He’d never met the man in person, but he’d done enough snooping around within the local jo-poks—out of the desire to figure out where they were and who they were, for the purposes of staying as far away from them as possible—to know who their hired killers were. This man, Shin, worked for the Beongjae jo-pok.

So they had meant to kill him. And they had sent one of their most reliable killers to do so, which meant they weren’t fucking around.

He forced himself to stay there in the hallway, to make absolutely sure that the man had been working alone. While he waited, he racked his brain, trying desperately to imagine how he could have pissed the Beongjae jo-pok off. He knew all of their main businesses, their most important members, and always tried his best to avoid angering them. He only ever took from legitimate corporations, and large ones at that.

An hour passed before Chan was willing to creep down the hallway and back into his apartment. He found the door securely locked, looking untouched, and when he opened it the inside of his apartment looked completely normal. A niggling voice in the back of his head asked if he was sure he hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing, but he quashed it back down.

He set the groceries down by the door, before proceeding inside, down his hallway. He didn’t really care if they’d touched his kitchen, or his living room, and so he passed them by. All he cared about was the guest bedroom, which served as his office. If that had been touched, then they were onto him.

The door to his office was always double-locked; first with a rim lock and second with a deadbolt. He was pretty sure that neither or those would stand much of a chance against anyone with any real dedication, but it would stop any cleaning lady or plumber would bumbled their way into his apartment. There were no outward signs of the locks being picked, but that wasn’t what he was looking for. He dropped to his knees, searching along the carpet outside of the door. A few seconds later he found it—a tiny shred of white paper, and all of the air whooshed out from his lungs.

The hitman had been real.

CB97 had been caught, and by a fucking jo-pok at that.

Every time Chan closed the door to his office, he slipped the paper into the doorframe. It would only fall out if the door was opened, but was small enough that no one but him would notice it or know to look for it. And since he’d found it here, on the floor, there was no mistaking that someone had been in his apartment, had bypassed the locks to go snooping around.

He had no time to waste, so he pushed aside the influx of _shock anger fear confusion_ whirling in his mind and unlocked the door as quickly as possible, stepping into the room. If the hitman had made it into this room, there would have been no denying the connection between Bang Chan and CB97 to the Beongjae jo-pok—the sheer amount of space in his office devoted to storage and computing power was a dead giveaway. He could remember the days and days he’d spent tailoring his storage system to his own needs, finding individual parts—the workstation, the NAS, the UPS—that added up to give him the security and freedom to do what he wanted.

It was almost a shame to have to wipe it all. Almost.

Thankfully, Bang Chan was nothing if not paranoid, and he’d already created a protocol for a situation like this. He powered on his main computer, which was connected to everything, and set about entering the series of passwords that he’d hoped he’d never have to use, that had never once been written down or spoken aloud. Lastly, he pressed the pad of his pointer finger to the reader just underneath his desk.

He was dismantling all of the work he’d done in the past year, but it was alright. He’d build it back up again, eventually; knew what he was doing enough to recreate it, with enough time.

The monitor immediately went black, and Chan ran a hand through his hair, letting out a deep breath. Then he stood and began to make his way back to his front door. The program would finish on its own, and he’d stayed for as long as he could afford. Now that they knew where he lived, they knew who he was, and that meant that he had to run. Fast. He’d have time to think over the where and why of it all later; for now, he had to focus himself on getting out of the city as discreetly as possible.

It probably said a lot about how Chan lived that he felt no sense of attachment to his belongings or his apartment, no sense of regret or melancholy at the idea of never seeing any of those things again. He couldn’t afford to get sentimental about things, because he never knew when he’d need to drop them to stay hidden. And this, being discovered, just proved him right.

Chan walked out the door and left his life behind without hesitation, and without a single glance back.

* * *

He’d been walking for what felt like hours, because public transportation seemed like too much of a risk, and a cab driver would ask too many questions about why he was staying away from the main roads. When he was by himself, he could pick his own route, could duck through alleys and cut behind buildings that he wouldn’t be able to in a car. He was sure that the Beongjae jo-pok would have realized that the apartment visit would tip him off; they’d be expecting him to run.

It was common to flee a city in a car or on a bus. It was rare to simply walk out.

People were usually focused more on speed, especially when spooked, than on slipping under the radar. But if there was one thing Chan was good at, it was keeping a level head in a crisis, and going unnoticed. It was a skill he’d been perfecting it for years—had thought he’d perfected, actually, but this shit with the Beongjae jo-pok was life slapping him in the face and telling him he’d been too cocky. But it didn’t matter that he had to run; he had enough money with him to last for the next few days, and more than he’d ever need in his offshore accounts for after that.

He’d leave the city, first, maybe move back to Seoul, where it was easier to blend in with everyone. The Beongjae jo-pok’s reach didn’t extend there, as far as he knew. If he needed to, though, he’d leave the country. Either way, he’d have to start his life anew, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. He’d have the chance to try to blend in, but do it the right way this time.

Maybe it was too suspicious to be nobody, to have no friends or family, no job, no presence. Absence in and of itself could serve as a clue.

Instead of the Bang Chan who was nobody, he’d become the Bang Chan who was somebody, who was part of a community, who people knew. He’d get a job, maybe, make some friends, so that people would recognize his face. If he did everything right, he could make it seem as if he’d always been there. And if anyone suspected him, they could do some digging around, and realize that they’d been wrong. This couldn’t be the Bang Chan who fled Busan; this Bang Chan had a _life_ here, had _roots_ here.

Who knew, maybe he could start going by Chris again.

As he walked, his hands jammed in his pockets and his hood pulled down low over his eyes, the adrenaline from the break-in slowly began to wear off. He felt the all-encompassing exhaustion creeping up on him, tugging at the corners of his mind, and did his best to fight it, but in the end he was only delaying the inevitable. He’d been awake for at least two days, and his mind and body were suffering because of it.

Back in the apartment, he’d been too high-strung to really notice, but now that he was out of immediate danger, it was harder and harder to ignore the numbness of his limbs and the heaviness of his eyelids. Each step felt like it took more energy than the last. His mouth dry, he pressed onwards; he couldn’t afford to sleep, not until he was outside the city perimeter at least. He wasn’t safe here.

Chan forced himself to shuffle along faster, even though he had to lean against one of the alley walls to keep his balance as a result. It felt a bit more like he was falling and catching himself, over and over, rather than taking coordinated steps, but he was getting to where he needed to go, and that was what was important.

Just a little bit further. Just a little bit further, and then he could sleep.

He stepped out from the alley, and suddenly he couldn’t see.

Panic shot up from within him, stabbing through his chest, but then he turned his head and realized that he wasn’t blind, he was just staring down an impossibly bright light. His attention narrowed, all of his senses focusing in on the light that was approaching him in what felt like slow motion.

A loud sound hit his ears, and it was familiar—what was it?

Then he was hit by what felt like the force of a thousand stampeding elephants, and when he next opened his eyes he was lying on his back in the middle of the road. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stare up at the night sky with wide eyes. Every nerve ending in his body felt like it was on fire; he was pretty sure he’d scraped his chin against the asphalt as he’d gone flying through the air.

A car horn. The sound had been a car horn.

Chan had just been hit by a fucking _car._

His breath came back to him in a whoosh, and he took in big, heaving gulps of air, too relieved to care that each one sent a sharp shock of pain lancing through his ribs. His thoughts swirled around for a second, unable to focus on anything coherent. He lay there for a few seconds, until he was able to calm down enough to process that he’d just almost died, _again._

The universe was really out to get him, wasn’t it. It wasn’t enough that he’d narrowly escaped the Beongjae jo-pok’s hitman, that he’d almost died that night already. The universe just had to go and kick him while he was down. He took in another painful breath, and blood dripped down his chin.

“Fuck you,” he breathed out, raising a finger to the heavens as he lay there in the road. “Fuck you, I’m fucking alive.”

And then he laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what can i say, shin's a busy guy, he's just everywhere y'know?


	4. Chapter Four

Jisung had no idea where he was going. He’d taken off in a sprint at first, but he could only run for so long before his lungs seized up on him and the stich in his side forced him to slow to a walk. He was pretty sure he’d been roughly heading in a direction that would take him out of the city, because he knew he couldn’t stay in Busan.

He had been staying on side roads because of the blood—Seojun’s blood—coating his arms up to the elbows and staining the entire front of his shirt. He didn’t want to attract any attention, but he also wasn’t sure how to clean up without somebody seeing him.

But for the moment, it was still the middle of the night, and he was still away from the city lights, so that was a problem for a future Jisung.

He probably had a little bit of time before he became a suspect—both to the police and to the Cheolgwon jo-pok. Seojun would be unconscious by the time the police got there, and the Cheolgwon jo-pok probably didn’t even know about Seojun’s visit to the barbershop. Still, he was too scared to try to go back to his apartment, and he’d buried his phone in the first dumpster he’d found.

Tipping off the police had put him in a bit of a tight spot. If he was caught by them, he’d go to jail for attempted murder, and the Cheolgwon jo-pok would probably kill him there. If he was caught by the Cheolgwon jo-pok, they’d probably main him horribly, and then kill him. His only true chance of survival was to avoid both of them. Still, the call had been necessary; between the police and the Cheolgwon jo-pok, the jo-pok was by far the more dangerous of the two. Involving the police was necessary in order to slow them down enough to give him a chance to escape.

Though he wasn’t sure how far he’d get, given that he had no phone, no money, and no car. Not to mention that he had no idea where he’d go once he got out of Busan. He was guessing that somewhere like Daegu wouldn’t be far enough for him to escape the Cheolgwon jo-pok’s reach. Maybe he could head up north, towards Seoul?

His best bet was probably playing the part of a broke twentysomething trying to travel around Korea, trying to see how far he could get through hitchhiking alone. Plenty of kids did something like that during a gap year; it would explain why he was alone and broke, and it would also make it harder for the Cheolgwon jo-pok to tail him. But he’d have to take care of his appearance before he could ask anyone for a ride.

Jisung scratched absently at a clot of dried blood on his wrist, and then caught himself. Ever since he’d left the shop, he’d been trying his best not to think about what Seojun’s face had looked like as he’d bled out on the floor, about the slick slide of blood around his fingers as Jisung tried to hold his throat together. Every time he remembered what was staining his skin, those memories forced their way up to the front of his mind, until his breath caught in his throat. He forced his shaking hands to his sides.

And then he stepped around the corner to a car barreling down the road towards him, its headlights drowning out everything else until his vision was filled with white. Frozen in fear, he could do nothing but gape as the car’s brakes screeched. It jerked to a halt mere inches away from him, and if he’d lifted a finger, he could probably have touched it.

It had all happened so quickly, he hadn’t even had time to flinch.

Time stood still for a moment. He stared at the car numbly, barely registering the frantic fluttering of his panicked heart in his chest. In the driver’s seat, a man with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel and a cut across the bridge of his nose stared back at him.

A man who’d almost killed him.

He looked terrified, and that gave Jisung pause, because it was one thing to be scared after almost hitting someone—that was a rational fear, one that could imaginably happen to almost anyone.

But the look in this man’s eyes was something else entirely. He was scared shitless, but almost hitting Jisung was only a small part of that. The hollowness of his cheeks, the wariness in his eyes, the sharp set to his jaw—all of it affirmed what Jisung was suspecting.

This man was running, just like he was.

The question was, from what?

Jisung narrowed his eyes, giving him a second onceover. He had two bruises that were just starting to form, one on his cheekbone and another across his nose. But his knuckles around the steering wheel were uninjured. He seemed more like someone who had found his way into trouble than someone who’d been causing it himself. And there was something in the way he was looking at him, something soft in his eyes.

He couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but he felt like he could trust him.

His legs were moving before his consciousness even caught up, and he found out that the man had been driving around with his car unlocked when the door opened on his first try. He settled himself into the passenger seat, keenly aware of the presence next to him. The man was looking at him, but Jisung kept his eyes on the road and his mouth shut, leaving the first move up to him.

A hand reached slightly across him, but he didn’t flinch, because something in him knew that this man wasn’t going to hurt him. The man reached into the glove compartment, rummaging around for a second. When his hand reemerged, he dropped something wordlessly into Jisung’s lap.

A crumpled pack of tissues.

“For your hands,” the man said. The rasp in his voice contrasted sharply with how softly he spoke; it was as if he was trying to sound comforting, but didn’t quite know how. “You can use my water bottle to help. And I have a jacket in the backseat, if you want to change out of that shirt.”

Jisung looked up at him with wide eyes, and all of his breath escaped him in one fell swoop. Out of everything he’d been expecting, the sheer kindness in the gesture was something he hadn’t been prepared to deal with. He hadn’t been expecting the man to somehow home in on the one little thing that had been making him feel so uncomfortable and disgusting. He was so scared and high-strung that it was enough to make his eyes water with a second round of tears.

“Thank you,” he whispered. It suddenly became too much to stare into the man’s eyes, into the understanding that lurked there, and he abruptly dropped his gaze to his lap.

The man thankfully didn’t comment on his sniffling, and simply started the car up again. Jisung tried not to seem too eager when he ripped open the tissues and dunked them in the water bottle, tried not to show how desperate he was to get Seojun off of his skin, but he was pretty sure the shaking of his fingers gave him away. He was sure the man had noticed, but, just like the tears, he didn’t pry. He was glad for it, because the swarm of muddled emotions inside of him was something he hadn’t even begun to figure out yet, much less twist around into enough coherency to put into words.

He wasn’t able to do a perfect job, but he was able to get most of the blood off, and it felt so, _so_ unbelievably good. And when he decided to lean into the backseat for the jacket, the man slowed his driving so as not to jostle him. He even looked out the driver’s side window when Jisung pulled off his shirt.

A part of Jisung wanted to laugh at how gentlemanly he was acting—they were both guys, after all, and it was kind of silly—but for the first time the idea of someone looking at him shirtless made something curl unpleasantly in his stomach, and suddenly it didn’t seem quite as funny.

“Seo Changbin,” the man said, once Jisung had threaded his arms through the jacket and zipped it up to hide his chest. He could immediately tell that this was the man’s real name, and the simple act of honesty made happiness flare in his stomach.

“Han Jisung. Can I call you hyung?”

If Changbin was surprised by that, he didn’t show it, his only reaction being a small quirk of his lips. It was abnormally forward, sure, but he somehow felt closer to this near-stranger than he felt to some of his childhood friends. He made him feel safe, even though his life had just fallen apart around his shoulders.

He thought of something and giggled, deciding to test Changbin’s limits. “What about Binnie-hyung?”

“Yah, don’t be a brat,” Changbin shot at him, his warning tone completely undermined by the pleased look on his face.

“Okay, Binnie-hyung,” Jisung sang, snuggling down into his seat. He had guessed correctly; Changbin seemed like the type to put up a gruff exterior, all while secretly liking affectionate things like nicknames. His appearance and his voice screamed tough, but everything about the way he’d treated Jisung was gentle. Delicate.

They drove in silence for a while, and Jisung noticed that Changbin seemed to be avoiding main roads, just as he had been. And that they were heading towards the outskirts of Busan, just as he had been. It just confirmed his suspicions that Changbin was running from something—running for his life, if the fear in his eyes was anything to go by.

Jisung was a naturally curious person, especially when it came to other people. Part of the reason why he was so good at reading them was because he’d spent so long studying people’s reactions and tells in order to figure out what they were truly thinking. The truth of the matter was that people lied, far more often than anyone tended to think—with their mouths and with their actions. Jisung prided himself on being able to tell when they were doing so, on unwinding all of their protective layers until he was able to reach the pulsing heart at their center. To reach the ugly truth, stripped from all of its sugarcoating.

He was dying to know what Changbin’s center would look like, with all his truths laid bare.

Sure, he was curious to find out who he was running from, and what he had done to warrant their fury. But, even more than _what_ Changbin had done, he wanted to know _why_ he had done it. Because he could tell that Changbin wasn’t an idiot. He was terrified, and he was running, but he was at least keeping his wits about him, and was being smart about it. So he must’ve been smart enough to know what he’d been getting himself into. And he’d made the choice anyways.

But Jisung knew that he couldn’t start asking Changbin about that without him prying for answers in return, and he still couldn’t even _think_ of Seojun without wanting to claw open his skin and crawl out of it. It was unfair for him to ask Changbin without being able to give anything in return.

“Where are we headed?” he eventually asked, keeping his voice carefully neutral. It wasn’t anywhere near what he actually wanted to ask, but this was the only safe territory he could think of for the moment.

The question hung between them for a moment, and he watched the subtle tells in Changbin’s features as he figured out how he wanted to answer. To most, it would look as if Changbin was simply sitting there, face blank, but Jisung wasn’t most people. He could see his nerves and fear in the way his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on the wheel. He could read his indecision and wariness in the narrowing of his eyes and the ever-so-slight furrowing of his eyebrows. Changbin was weighing his options, warring with himself over how much to reveal, how much to trust him.

“North,” he said, after a long silence. “Up towards Seoul.”

He most likely meant for the words to come out as authoritative, but Jisung saw the subtle way his shoulders hiked up, and knew that he was just as unsure as Jisung was. He might be putting up a better front, but they were both just running as fast and as far as they could.

“I don’t know where I’m going,” he said slowly, and felt Changbin look over at him. “But Seoul sounds as good a place as any.”

* * *

Changbin didn’t quite know what to make of Jisung. He’d been covered in someone else’s blood the first time Changbin had seen him, his hands shaking and his cheeks streaked with tears. Changbin had been so terrified of hitting him that he’d done nothing but sit there for what felt like hours, staring into his impossibly wide eyes. Jisung had stood in the middle of the road staring right back at him, bathed in the halo of his headlights, and he had looked scared out of his mind. And completely lost. And absolutely, achingly beautiful.

In that moment, Changbin felt an incredible desire that pulled him towards Jisung, that told him to bring him close and keep him safe. The haunted look in such a young face, even in a stranger’s, made him feel the urge to protect him.

But before Changbin could open his mouth to invite him in, Jisung had marched right up to his car and had plopped himself down in the passenger seat as if it belonged to him. And right before he did, he leveled Changbin with a gaze that was surprisingly calculated, the weight of which stripped away some of his youth and made him look much older.

He’d only looked that way for a moment, and had retreated back into his fear by the time he’d sat down, but Changbin couldn’t stop thinking about it. That look had resurfaced briefly, right after Changbin had first offered him the tissues and jacket, and in that moment Changbin had felt like a child who was just being told they had passed an important test.

But then Jisung had called him “Binnie-hyung,” and he couldn’t help the warm hum that started in his chest when he heard that, or the way that he couldn’t seem to remember how to breathe each time Jisung laughed. In those moments, it was all-too easy to forget the terror or the coldness that Jisung had exuded earlier.

There were too many different sides to Han Jisung, and Changbin couldn’t quite put his finger on any of them. He huffed softly to himself, flexing his fingers against the steering wheel, and made a turn that would eventually get them onto the highway out of Busan.

And then someone materialized out of nowhere in front of them, appearing out into the road. Changbin jammed his hand down on the horn, slamming his foot into the brakes so hard he felt his ankle pop. He could hear Jisung yelling, and he was yelling, too, but he could only barely hear it over the deafening ringing in his ears. He caught a glimpse of the man’s bloodshot eyes, staring listlessly at the headlights, and _oh god_ he wasn’t going to be able to stop in time, and—

Changbin would pay any amount of money in the world to forget the _thud_ that the car made when it hit him.

The man went sprawling backwards through the air in a whirlwind of limbs, but he didn’t make a sound, not even when he somehow landed flat on his back on the pavement. He looked like he’d been hit _hard_ , and was he moving or was he—okay, he was moving, that was good, he wasn’t dead and Changbin hadn’t killed him.

He took in a deep breath, and then his heart stopped.

_Jisung._

Changbin frantically whipped around to check on him. He’d jerked the car to a stop, hard, and he couldn’t remember if he’d been wearing a seatbelt, and—

Jisung was breathing hard, was definitely alive, definitely unhurt. Changbin let out a breath, feeling a little bit like a deflated balloon. Jisung was hugging himself tightly, his knuckles white where they gripped his forearms. His brown eyes were wide, fixated firmly on the figure in front of them in the road. His jaw was trembling, but his eyes were dry.

Changbin felt a surge of rage stab through him. Jisung had been spooked enough without having to watch Changbin almost kill a guy.

Fuck, he could’ve killed him, and the guy he’d hit was—

He was laughing _._ He’d been hit by a fucking car, had gone flying through the air and everything, and he was just lying on the ground and laughing up at the sky like everything was all fine and dandy. Changbin could have _killed_ him, and he was just fucking _laughing._

Before he knew it, he was unbuckling his seatbelt, ripping the door open and tumbling out into the night. He heard Jisung call his name, but only distantly; every fiber of his being was focused on the asshole in the middle of the road, who’d put that look on Jisung’s face. Who could’ve added killing a man to the list of shit Changbin had been through that day.

The man’s eyes flicked over towards him, and then Changbin punched him square in his stupid, laughing mouth.

He went to punch him again, expecting him to just take it the way he’d taken the first one, but the man was ready. He sat up in a surge of movement, one leg hooking behind Changbin’s and pulling so that their surroundings blurred. Changbin’s head hit the pavement, and his teeth bit down on his tongue with a clack, his mouth filling with blood. His eyes watered, and when he looked up, their positions had been reversed, with the man now straddling his waist to keep him pinned.

“Now, I recognize that you needed to work out your frustration,” the man hissed, “but you don’t get more than one punch for that.”

Changbin swore at him, and he smiled, lip split and teeth bloody. He leaned in closer, and suddenly Changbin was all-too aware of every point of contact between them, of the warm press of his thighs around his hips, of the heat of his breath on his cheek.

The man’s skin was so pale he looked like something that didn’t belong in this plane of existence, and fuck if he wasn’t one of the hottest things Changbin had ever seen. He must’ve stared for a second too long, because the man’s smile changed, his eyes growing hooded. There was barely any space between them to begin with, and still he leaned closer, their noses brushing.

“Have you calmed down, princess?” he murmured.

Changbin was in the middle of deciding whether to kiss him or punch him when he caught a look past him at Jisung, who was still standing by the car with his arms folded. For a second, while he was looking back at Changbin, there was an unreadable look in his eyes. But then he turned his attention on the man, sizing him up with the same look he’d given Changbin when they’d first met.

“I’m fucking _calm_ , lemme up,” Changbin bit out.

The man followed his gaze over to Jisung, and Changbin could tell the second that he saw his face because his eyes softened, and his grip on Changbin’s wrists went limp. He took the opportunity to push until he was let up, wincing as he rubbed the knot forming at the base of his skull.

“Are you done?” asked Jisung. He seemed decidedly unimpressed with the both of them, and Changbin felt an apology on his lips before he even knew what he might be apologizing for.

Without waiting for an answer, Jisung turned around and curled up in the passenger seat, drawing his knees up towards his chin. The action made him look even smaller than his slight build normally did, and Changbin followed him without hesitation.

Then the man popped open the door to the back, sliding into the backseat. Changbin gritted his teeth, but Jisung simply turned his head to look out the window, and so he bit back his complaints and turned the key in the ignition.

He guided them along some more side roads, and soon they were close enough to the outskirts of the city that he felt it was safe to merge onto the highway. Before he was really ready for it, they were driving past a sign announcing their exit from Busan. He bit his lip, glancing over at Jisung, and saw the same melancholy in his eyes that he was feeling. It comforted him, to know that he wasn’t the only one mourning the pieces of the life that he’d left behind. It had been shitty sometimes—a lot of the time—but there were still good parts, like Jeongin and his braces, or the lady who sold cucumbers at Kkangtong market, or the view of the sunset from his apartment. Those were things he would probably never see again.

He already missed them terribly.

“Where’s our first stop?” asked Jisung sleepily.

Changbin tightened his grip on the wheel. His absentminded question was a welcome distraction of everything he was going to mourn. It was less a reminder of where they should be going, and more of a reminder of why they were going there in the first place. Their destinations were just a marker of how far they had to outrun in order to make it. In order to survive.

“Daegu.”

Jisung hummed softly, and then reached forward to turn up the radio. He spent a few minutes shifting between stations, eventually settling on one that was playing some idol Changbin couldn’t be bothered to remember who was crooning about a long lost love.

As Changbin led them down the highway, staring blankly down the road with dry eyes, Jisung rested his head against the windowsill, and began to sing softly along to the radio.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also known as: seo changbin falls head over heels for every pretty boy he meets


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> y'all i really am DUMB dumb i thought i posted this yesterday but hit preview instead and only just now was like "why is no one commenting" and it was because i never hit post why am i like this

For a moment, when Chan woke, he had no idea where he was, and the darkness and the sound of unknown voices around him made him freeze up in a silent panic. He lay there, paralyzed by fear—what if he’d been _caught_ what if they’d gotten him and he was about to end up in a ditch somewhere—before he realized he was in the back of a car, and everything came abruptly flooding back to him.

His lower lip throbbed from the force of the punch from the black-haired man, the one with the eyes like fire, and he smiled to himself. The warmth that he’d felt back on the pavement, on top of him, the visceral press of their bodies against each other, was the most alive he’d felt in months. He’d known, from the expression on the man’s face, that he’d felt it, too.

They’d been seconds away from either fucking or fighting, except that they’d been in public and the other boy, the one with the bright blue hair that made him look like some kind of anime boy, had stopped them.

He couldn’t quite figure Anime Boy out. He was still unnerved by the intensity of his stare when he’d first looked at him, especially since it had disappeared as soon as he’d looked away. Even though Fiery Eyes was clearly older and in charge of driving the car, it seemed as if Anime Boy had the final say over who was allowed in. Once he’d gotten in the car, wordlessly inviting them both to enter, Fiery Eyes had let Chan join them without voicing any of his complaints—and he’d clearly had several, given the way they met and the set of his jaw every time he looked back at him.

Chan still wasn’t sure exactly what had driven him to get in the car; mere hours ago, he’d been waxing poetic to himself about how he was better, _safer_ , alone and unremarkable. Tagging on along with two others who were clearly on the run from something as well didn’t exactly fall in line with that plan. It was risky, and only added more unknown and uncontrollable variables to the equation.

But there had been something in the way Fiery Eyes had touched him. And there had been something in the way Anime Boy had looked at him, when he was sitting in the passenger seat and waiting for him to get in the car.

He’d spent so long forcing his own desires down to avoid getting caught, and look where that had gotten him. If he wanted to change, to build a life for himself—one that was believable instead of unnoticeable—he had to start somewhere, right? There would be time to fret about the consequences of his impulsive decision, later.

Chan sat up slowly, registering that the other two were still awake, and maybe had been this entire time. To be fair, the adrenaline and panic would have kept him going for longer if he hadn’t been so exhausted. Fiery Eyes was still driving, eyes fixed on the road, but along the steering wheel, his fingers were tentatively tapping out the beat of the song on the radio. Anime Boy was slouched against the window. If Chan strained his ears enough, he could make out his soft singing.

He leaned forward slightly, in order to hear it better, and closed his eyes. Anime Boy had a nice voice, even when his words were slurred from sleepiness. It was low, but clear; there was something intrinsically soothing about it. He was singing along to a Dean song—Chan recognized the voice but not the song itself—about unrequited love.

It had been a long time since Chan had enjoyed listening to someone sing like this.

“You have a pretty voice,” he said, when the song ended, and Anime Boy just about jumped straight through the roof of the car, letting out a high-pitched shriek. Fiery Eyes cursed, more from the noise than Chan’s words, the car swerving slightly.

“Jesus fuck,” Anime Boy said when he calmed down, whirling around to glare at him. “Warn a guy next time, won’t you?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Chan said, grinning.

Anime Boy studied him again, narrowing his eyes briefly, and he felt his smile drop. When he glanced towards Fiery Eyes, looking for some sort of help or reassurance, he found him looking at him in the rearview mirror, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“I’m Seo Changbin,” Fiery Eyes said, breaking the silence. The look dropped from the boy’s eyes at once, though he made no move to turn to face forward, and Chan breathed a sigh of relief.

“Bang Chan,” he said, and then wanted to hit himself. Something about the two had already put him at ease enough to let slip his _actual_ name. Or maybe it was the sleep.

Or maybe it was the fact that they both seemed just as lost and scared as he was on the inside.

“Han Jisung,” the boy announced, thrusting out a hand. “Can I call you hyung?”

He shook the hand on reflex—something he was used to from growing up in Australia, but which was incredibly rare in South Korea—before he processed the words, blinking in surprise at their forwardness. “I barely know you,” he reminded him.

“Hyung,” Jisung’s lips pouted out slightly, and Chan wondered if he was even aware he was doing it. “We’ve been through so much together! You almost died, remember?”

Chan wasn’t so sure why he insisted on speaking informally so soon after meeting him. He was even less sure why that didn’t seem to bother him nearly as much as it should. He’d met these two only hours ago, through complete coincidence, so it made no sense as to why he felt so at ease with them. He’d already trusted them both with his real name—though he suspected they’d trusted him with theirs, as well, so that was a fair trade.

Maybe it was how simply and willingly they’d accepted him, inviting him into their car without a care to how they might be endangering themselves by doing so. Or maybe it was the amused look on Changbin’s face when he looked back at him, or the open eagerness on Jisung’s face when he shook his hand like a foreigner.

“Okay, you can call me hyung,” he conceded.

Satisfied, Jisung gave him a huge smile, and—

_Oh._

Chan felt like he’d been sucker-punched in the stomach, like all the air had been driven out of him.

If Han Jisung was pretty even when tired and scared, he was beautiful when he smiled. His smile was big and genuine, all teeth, and the way his lips parted made his mouth look like a little heart. The best part was the way his eyes curled up into little crescents, the way they seemed to shine.

Then Jisung turned back around to face the front, and the smile was gone.

Breathless, Chan looked around desperately, and met Changbin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. His lips were quirked up in a smirk, and there was a knowing glint to his eyes, one that told Chan he knew just what effect Jisung’s smile had had on him. There was an understanding that passed between them, then, that came from experiencing firsthand just how impossible it was not to be drawn in by Jisung’s heart-shaped smile.

It terrified him a little bit, how he knew he’d tear all of the stars from the sky and wrestle them down to the earth if it meant that he’d see Jisung’s smile again. It terrified him even more that he knew he’d do all that if it meant he could feel the heart of Changbin’s touch again.

He barely knew these boys, and he felt as if they already owned him, body and soul.

“Where are we going?” he asked, trying to distract himself from his thoughts.

“Seoul,” Changbin answered. His tone attempted to come off as decisive, but Chan knew enough about leadership to know that his confidence was more of a front than anything.

Chan hummed, drumming his fingers along the side of Changbin’s headrest and reveling in the way his eye twitched in annoyance at the sound. Seoul was the destination he’d had in mind, anyways, and he’d already planned on switching to a car once he was safely out of Busan. Sure, it had happened a bit sooner than he’d planned—and definitely not in the way he’d planned—but it was good to be in a car, because now that they were out of Busan the speed advantage outweighed the disadvantage of being more predictable.

And something deep inside him had already decided that it was out of the question to leave these boys behind.

He broke out of his thoughts to take a closer look at where they were, and blanched.

“Are we on a _highway?”_ he bit out, even though he knew the answer already.

He felt Jisung turn to look at him, and Changbin was frowning at his tone even as he nodded.

Were they stupid? “Stop the car,” he said.

“What?” Changbin asked, looking at him like he was crazy.

He wasn’t pulling over, and they were on fucking highway 55, probably heading towards Daegu, and that was _exactly_ what the Beongjae jo-pok would’ve expected from someone who was fleeing Busan. Chan felt his heartbeat pick up, his palms growing clammy with sweat. The highway had a lot of traffic, but what if they were on the lookout for him? What if they spotted him? The other two were also liabilities—were they being followed? By whom? How did Changbin know this car wasn’t being tracked?

 _“Get the hell off of the highway,”_ he hissed, his tone harsh enough that Changbin paled slightly and steered over towards the next exit immediately.

Once they were off, Changbin pulled them over towards the side of the road. The second the car slowed to a halt, Chan was tugging at the door, stumbling out into the nighttime chill. His panic was manifesting as anger, but he couldn’t help it, gesturing brusquely at the other two to get out as well.

If they wanted to survive this, all of them, then they had to sort their shit out, and fast. There were too many unknowns, and they couldn’t afford to make stupid mistakes like taking the most obvious route out of the city. He didn’t doubt that Changbin and Jisung were smart—after all, he didn’t know how long they’d been running, and they’d made it this far—but that didn’t mean they weren’t invulnerable to complacency, or mistakes.

Hell, Chan was pretty sure he wasn’t invulnerable, either. If he had been, he would never have gotten caught. That being said, he was still probably the most careful out of all three of them; couldn’t help it, with how his anxious mind was constantly putting itself into overdrive.

Jisung kept his back to the car, and Chan was pretty sure he was deliberately keeping Changbin in between them. That, and the newfound wariness in Changbin’s eyes, sent the tiniest twinge of guilt through Chan’s gut, but he pushed it back down. He’d much rather they be alive than dead, even if it meant they were a bit scared of him.

“We need to talk,” he said, and winced at the sternness in his voice. The next time he spoke, he tried to soften the harshness of his tone. “I’m getting the feeling that we’re all running from one thing or another, and I promise I can help you out, but I need to know some things first.”

* * *

Changbin wouldn’t have pulled over when Chan ordered him to, if it weren’t for the fact that there was a hint of fear in his voice, under the cold anger. He, himself, had felt a spark of rage when Chan first raised his voice and he had to watch Jisung shrink into himself as if he was trying to disappear. It had made him want to keep driving, out of spite more than anything.

But there had been thinly-veiled terror in Chan’s tone, and anything that scared Chan was something that Changbin knew he should pay attention to.

Then Chan had looked at them with such caring in his eyes, had seemed so confident that he could help them as long as he knew enough about their situations. If he didn’t know better, Changbin would’ve bristled at the idea that a mere stranger could protect him or Jisung better than he could himself. But Chan was something more than just a stranger; no stranger had ever exuded such a calming sense of control, the way that he did, even while he was standing on the edge of the road in the middle of the night with eyebags the size of Texas under his eyes.

Changbin wanted to trust him. Wanted him to take care of them. But there was the way that Jisung was still curled into himself, was hiding behind Changbin even if unconsciously.

They wouldn’t be able to make it anywhere if they were scared of each other.

“Don’t raise your voice at us again,” Changbin growled. “Just tell us, and we’ll take you seriously. There’s no need to yell.”

Chan had the grace to look slightly apologetic, at least. “I’m sorry, but I needed you to listen to me, quickly.”

Changbin felt something brush against the fingers of his right hand, and knew without a doubt that it was Jisung. For all their time sitting next to each other in the car, Jisung had never actually initiated physical contact; Changbin had held back, not wanting to scare him in case he hadn’t wanted to be touched. But he’d ached to do something to comfort him, even if it was just a simple hug. So when he felt Jisung’s tentative touch, he quickly reached back to lace his fingers through his own, holding him firmly, grounding him.

“I don’t like it when you get angry,” Jisung put forward, his voice small and his fingernails digging into the back of Changbin’s hand almost painfully. Changbin gave his hand a squeeze, trying to channel as much encouragement into the gesture as he could.

Chan’s face softened immediately, and he looked appropriately cowed.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said gently, and then hesitated. “I was…scared, if I’m being honest. The people I’m running from, they’re dangerous, and were probably expecting me to try to leave via the highway. Every second that we spent there was putting me, and both of you, in danger.”

Chan looked between the both of them, then, and Changbin could tell from his face that he’d truly meant the apology. He’d also volunteered some information about himself—nothing that Changbin hadn’t already suspected, but still—and that was a show of trust. So Changbin was pretty sure that he could trust Chan, not just with himself, but with Jisung.

He pulled Jisung up to stand next to him, instead of hiding behind him, and took a deep breath. If Chan had opened up to them, it was only fair to open up to him in return.

“I was in the Beongjae jo-pok, for five years,” he offered, and even though he was scared of what he’d see there he found it impossible to look away from Chan’s eyes. “But I’ve wanted out for a long time. I had a plan, but they figured me out somehow, so I ran. If they catch me, they’re going to kill me.”

Once he’d let it all out, he held his breath, terrified of how they’d react. He’d gone into a lot more detail than Chan had, and what if they hadn’t been expecting his deal to be so dangerous? What if they weren’t okay with the idea of traveling with a former gang member? What if—

And then Chan smiled, small but sweet and genuine, and the sight of his dimples made all of the panicked thoughts in Changbin’s head go silent. Next to him, Jisung gripped his hand tighter, and this time it felt like Changbin was the one being comforted. Their small gestures of support affected Changbin more than he’d expected, and he swallowed hard past the sudden lump in his throat.

“Thank you for trusting us,” Chan said, and fuck if he didn’t somehow always know the perfect thing to say. “The people following me are actually also from the Beongjae jo-pok. They sent a hitman to my apartment, and I escaped just earlier tonight, so I haven’t had much time to figure out why. But I think I might’ve accidentally stolen from one of their shell companies.”

Changbin blinked. He hadn’t been expecting that, and wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. The Beongjae jo-pok was huge, and it wasn’t unimaginable that they’d be hunting down multiple people. It was just that he’d built up this idea in his head that he was all on his own, and that his problems were his, and his alone. The idea of having someone who could share his fear, who would mean he wasn’t alone, was something he’d never hoped to have, but it made warmth bloom in his stomach.

Jisung cleared his throat. They both turned to look at him, and he cringed back a little bit, before setting his jaw. When he spoke, he kept his spine ramrod straight and his gaze firmly on the floor.

“The Cheolgwon jo-pok is looking for me,” he said. “They’re out for revenge, and I—I don’t really want to think about what they’ll do if they find me—”

Chan stepped forward, and reached out ever-so-slowly to rest a hand on Jisung’s shoulder. Changbin watched him like a hawk, ready to snap at him if Jisung displayed even a hint of discomfort, but Jisung just looked up, eyes wide. He seemed every bit as scared as he’d been when Changbin had first met him.

Changbin watched as Chan looked briefly back towards him, and he knew from the questioning look on his face that they’d both noticed that Jisung never mentioned just how he’d landed himself in so much trouble. But there was only so much he could’ve done, and Changbin remembered the blood on his hands and the way he initiated physical contact so hesitantly, so haltingly, and he knew that they shouldn’t press further. He gave the tiniest shake of his head, telling him not to ask about it.

Chan turned back to Jisung. “I’m not going to let them get you,” he said, and the determination in his voice was startling. “I’m going to protect you—both of you.”

He glanced over at Changbin as he said the last part, and Changbin simply nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. There was something inside of him that trusted Chan’s words the same way he’d trust that the sky was blue.

“Is there anything else I need to know?” Chan asked, looking at both of them. “Changbin, where did you get this car? If either of you guys took anything, is it with you right now?”

“I don’t have anything,” Jisung mumbled. Changbin rubbed his thumb across his knuckles in what he hoped was a comforting gesture; he’d been oddly quiet since Chan had ordered them off the road, and he was a bit worried about him. He made a mental note to talk to him about it later.

Then he realized that Chan was looking at him, and winced, feeling oddly guilty, a bit like a child who’d been caught stealing some other kid’s toy.

“I’ve been skimming for the past year,” he said. “Cash. It’s in the trunk. They know I have it; that’s the only reason they didn’t kill me the second they found out I was a traitor. And I stole the car a few hours ago, so we’ll need to change the plates or have me steal a new one in the next couple of days.”

Thankfully, Chan only nodded at the words, and there was no judgment on his face. He simply looked like he was rethinking something, taking the new information into account and modifying whatever plan he’d undoubtedly come up with. It was curious how the same man who’d flipped off the sky after getting hit by a car was the same man who was taking control of the situation so effortlessly, as if he’d been born to lead them.

“I know that this is all terrifying, but we’re going to get each other through this,” Chan said, and Changbin hated his treacherous little heart for flaring up with hope at his words. “We just have to be careful, and we’ll make it, I promise. We’re all running from similar things, which will make this easier. They’ll be expecting us to flee to Seoul through the most direct route—via the highway, through Daegu. They’ll look for us there.”

Changbin winced as he realized the truth to Chan’s words. He’d been so confident that getting them away from Busan as fast as possible was the right thing to do, but he’d just been playing into their expectations.

“It should be fine for us to stay in Daegu for the night, since we’re almost there already,” Chan continued. “I have a friend who can hide us, and we’ll enter the city via the backroads instead of the highway. But from there, we’ll need to take the scenic route to Seoul; I’ve been planning on heading out to the coast and heading up north there, before jogging left over to Seoul and entering it from the northeast side. I have a contact there who can help us out. Is that alright?”

Changbin started when he realized that Chan was addressing him, and not Jisung, with his last words. There was something new in his eyes, something that Changbin had never seen in his face before, and it took him a minute to place what it was: hesitancy.

Chan was worried that Changbin wasn’t going to give up control. That Changbin was going to push back against his plan.

He almost laughed out loud at the thought. Sure, he’d been the one driving the car, but that didn’t mean that he was the one in charge. It didn’t mean that he knew anything about what he was doing. Hell, the fact that he’d already put them in unnecessary danger was probably a sign that he wasn’t cut out for this.

That didn’t mean that he didn’t still want to protect them—especially Jisung. But part of actually doing that was knowing when he needed to step down and let someone else, someone better qualified, step up in his stead.

And he was one hundred percent comfortable with letting Chan take the wheel. He’d clearly been thinking much further ahead than Changbin had been.

He nodded.

A smile spread across Chan’s face, turning his eyes up at the corners until they formed little crescents. Changbin felt his own lips curling up in response.

“Great,” he said cheerfully, clapping his hands together. “Changbin, I want you up in the front. Jisung, why don’t you lay down in the back? I bet you haven’t slept at all since everything went down.”

Changbin guided Jisung to the back door of the car, only letting go of his hand at the last possible minute. Jisung curled up in the back without a word, hiking his legs up towards his chest so that he only took up a tiny fraction of the backseat. Changbin petted his hair softly, before moving to join Chan up in the front.

“Who’s the friend you have in Daegu?” he asked Chan.

Chan grinned, and started the car.

“Kim Woojin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to all those who thought changbin was a disaster gay last chapter: enter bang chan


	6. Chapter Six

Kim Woojin had gone to college with Bang Chan, where they’d met in an introductory computer science course. While Chan had dropped out, Woojin had gone on to get himself first a degree in electrical engineering, and then a job at a behemoth of a tech company housed in Daegu. He’d settled in downtown Daegu, and had stayed there. He led a fairly conservative life, dividing most of his time between his office and his apartment in Daegu. Aside from Chan, most of his friends were colleagues that he’d met at work.

And, for reasons Chan seemed unwilling to tell them, he was in the business of helping people disappear—which was why he owned a two-bedroom house, owned under a false name, in Hyeonpung, on the outskirts of Daegu. Hyeonpung was tiny enough that no one paid attention to who came and went. It, and the people who lived there, had basically no digital footprint. The only thing you’d find it you looked up the place were a couple grainy photos of some of the landscape; none of its occupants, or where they resided. In the one, mom-and-pop style grocery store in town, there were no security cameras.

It was the perfect place to hide someone who didn’t want to be found.

Jisung hadn’t woken up until after they’d entered Hyeonpung. By then, there was enough light outside for him to consider it early rather than late; when he glanced up at the front, the numbers 4:14 blinked back at him. He pressed his face up against the window to look out at the tiny houses and barren streets as they passed by, marveling in their quiet monotony—it was so different from the city he was used to, where you couldn’t stop to catch your breath for a moment without the chaos of millions of people bustling around in a few square miles being shoved into your face.

When Jisung had been a kid, he’d split his time between his parents’ places, alternating between spending two weeks at his mom’s and one week at his dad’s. The drive between their houses had been around an hour; for years, he’d passed the time staring out the window the way he was now, never tiring of simply taking things in with the sense of wonder only children could feel when faced with anything new, no matter how unremarkable it was.

But he wasn’t a kid now, and he grew bored of the world outside the car quickly. He was keenly aware of the two people in the front of the car— who were a thousand times more interesting than the dullness of their surroundings—and so he sat his weight forward onto his hands, leaning towards them.

If Chan noticed Jisung’s staring, he didn’t say anything; he kept his eyes on the road, and the only indication that he might have seen him was the way his lips turned up slightly in amusement.

He projected such a constant, disarming sense of reassurance that it was almost infuriating. Jisung wasn’t sure _how_ someone could be assuring while they were simply driving and looking out the windshield, but Chan was somehow pulling it off. There was just something in the sturdiness in the set of his shoulders, in the relaxed grip of his hand around the steering wheel, that projected a calm confidence. It couldn’t be dampened even by the swollen bruise around his jaw, or the violet circles under his eyes.

Jisung turned towards Changbin, only to find him already staring him down. He flinched back in surprise, but quickly realized that Changbin wasn’t annoyed, only curious, so he didn’t look away.

Changbin was the only one of them who hadn’t slept yet that night, and he was more beat-up than either him or Chan, and yet he looked the least dead out of all of them. When Jisung said this out loud, they both chuckled, though Chan’s laugh was more of an exhale and Changbin’s more of a cackle.

“In all fairness, that nap was the first time I’d slept in two days,” Chan said, which was. Terrifying.

“Holy shit, dude, are you okay to drive?” Jisung yelped. He turned to Changbin, grabbing onto his shoulder and tugging at it insistently. “I totally don’t think he’s okay to drive, c’mon, tell him.”

Changbin just shrugged. “We’re almost there, and he hasn’t crashed yet. I don’t think I’d be much better, at this rate. What, are you volunteering?”

That was unfair, because Jisung was pretty sure he’d already told Changbin that he didn’t know how to drive. Getting his license had been the kind of thing he’d always intended to do, eventually, but had never gotten around to actually doing. In all fairness, he’d only ever lived in big cities—even back in Malaysia, he’d always been perfectly fine getting around without a car. Even though getting a license seemed like a normal part of becoming an adult, he’d never felt enough need to warrant actually putting in the effort to get one.

He couldn’t have ever foreseen having to escape a jo-pok through some sort of twisted, desperate excuse for a _road trip._

“This is so unsafe, oh my god,” he grumbled, falling back into the backseat and crossing his arms.

“I think we’ve got bigger safety concerns, Jisung,” Chan reminded him gently, as infuriatingly right as ever. “Besides, we’re only two blocks away.”

That caught Jisung’s attention, and he scrambled over to press up against the window once more. Chan had said the safe house was small, and blue, and that Woojin would be waiting out front for them. He was curious to see the house, but more so to see Woojin. He’d seemed so boringly, utterly _safe_ when Chan had described him, and Jisung couldn’t quite figure out how a man like him had ended up involved with—with whatever _this_ was.

How much of Woojin was real, and how much of it was a front? Which one was more real—the Woojin who worked a dull office job, or the Woojin who made people disappear?

“There,” Changbin pointed, and Jisung flung himself over to the opposite side of the car to follow his finger. “That’s him, right?”

He couldn’t quite see from his angle in the backseat, and so he crowded forward into Changbin’s personal space, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse.

The house came into view just before Woojin did, but Jisung paid it barely any mind. It was small, and it was blue, just like Chan had said, nothing new there—no, what _was_ new was the broad-shouldered man standing out in the driveway. Jisung squinted at him as the car pulled in; he certainly _looked_ ordinary, with his unstyled, dark hair and his unassuming button-up, but something about the weight of his gaze wasn’t quite right.

A sense of warmth radiated out from his smile as they got out of the car, and Jisung could tell he was a good hugger from the ease with which he pulled Chan into his arms. But the warmth was directed all at Chan, and by the time he looked back over to Jisung and Changbin, it had faded away, cool politeness left in its wake. The abrupt change in his expression was jarring; Jisung found that Woojin’s stony expression looked far too practiced, far too comfortable, for his liking. They didn’t get much more than a nod before he was turning away, ushering Chan into the house.

Jisung glanced over at Changbin, only to find a bemused look on his face. They locked eyes for a second, and then Changbin shrugged, moving to follow them.

Something about the familiarity between Chan and Woojin was rubbing Jisung the wrong way, and he wasn’t sure why. Or maybe it wasn’t the familiarity itself, but the speed at which Woojin seemed capable of switching between two completely different settings when dealing with Chan versus them. Chan was a friend, that much was clear; but Jisung had the distinct sense that Woojin hadn’t yet figured out whether he approved of him and Changbin. He was likely putting up with them because they were with Chan, and that meant that his goodwill would only stretch so far.

Still, Jisung had been given plenty of chances to make his own way, and he’d chosen to stick with Changbin and Chan. He knew that, if he ever wanted to go, they’d let him, but a part of him had made up its mind to stay, back there on the side of the road. Had looked at Chan’s easy grin as he told them he’d protect them, had felt the warmth of Changbin’s hand in his, and had gone, _this is it._

And so he followed Changbin into the house, and came to a stop in the front hall.

He blinked.

Theoretically, he knew that safe houses were supposed to look like actual houses. That was kind of one of the main points of having safe houses in the first place.

It was one thing to know that, and another thing to step inside and immediately feel like he was trespassing in someone else’s life. He knew it had been set up this way for people like him, that the narrative told by the house’s interior was fake, but there was a yellow raincoat hung up by the door, and there were dishes in the sink, and it felt like he was looking at something private—like he was somewhere he didn’t belong.

“Changbin, Jisung,” Chan said. “There’s a bed made up in the guest bedroom. Why don’t you get some sleep?”

Was it strange that Jisung could already pick out his tone without thinking, could tell that his voice softened like this only when speaking to them and them alone? He’d heard him talking to Woojin, in low tones, as they’d entered the house. His voice had been warm, then, when addressing his friend. And yet there was something different in it when he spoke to them, even back in the car.

It made a warm, humming sort of sensation curl up in Jisung’s gut, as if a purring cat had suddenly decided to take residence there.

Once his words sank in, though, Jisung stiffened. His thoughts flashed back to how quickly Chan had left him and Changbin behind as soon as he’d seen Woojin, how easily he’d slung an arm around his shoulder and begun _whispering_ as if he didn’t want them to know what he was saying.

Jisung trusted Chan to keep him and Changbin safe. Even if he’d just met him. Even if he maybe shouldn’t. There was just something about him that inspired that sort of confidence; even cheesy, empty promises sounded comforting as long as they were coming out of his mouth.

He trusted Chan to protect them, but he was all-too aware of how little they all actually knew each other. He couldn’t be sure what measures Chan would go to in order to keep them safe, couldn’t be sure what his limits were.

“I’m not tired,” he said, maybe a bit too sharply and a bit too stubbornly. He’d already slept through Chan and Changbin talking earlier, through Chan leaving the car in order to call ahead to Woojin. It didn’t matter if he was still exhausted down to his very bones. He didn’t want to be put to sleep like a child any time Chan decided he wanted to discuss serious business; he had a right to know what was going on the same way any of them did.

He’d always been shit at keeping his emotions from playing out on his face when he was tired, or angry, or a combination of the two. And maybe some of his frustration and exhaustion was poking through, because even though Woojin looked ready to protest, Chan narrowed his eyes at him and then nodded.

Changbin glanced between them, and then rolled his eyes. “Well, _I’m_ going to bed, because I’m the only one of us who’s been awake this _entire goddamn time._ ”

And without so much as a wave, he shouldered his way past them, setting off down the hallway as if he’d been in this house a thousand times before. He seemed utterly unconcerned with whatever Woojin and Chan would be speaking about behind closed doors, and Jisung wondered if his blind trust in Chan stretched, perhaps, even further than Jisung’s did.

They stood in silence for a moment, until Jisung got fed up with Chan and Woojin exchanging looks and plopped dramatically down into the corner of the couch. When they looked at him, he simply raised his eyebrows and pointed at the armchairs opposite him.

“Sit,” he said, and to his delight, they obeyed without question.

“Alright,” Woojin said, not looking at him. “Chan, would you please tell me whatever’s going on that you couldn’t tell me over the phone?”

Chan glanced over at Jisung before he began to speak, at it sent a thrill through him when he realized that he was asking permission to tell Woojin about today—or yesterday, or whatever the fuck it was now that the sun was up but they were still running. He shrugged his approval, and only then did Chan open his mouth.

Back on the side of the road, when Changbin had apparently decided to spill his entire life story to two complete strangers, and when Chan had responded in kind, Jisung had held back. He hadn’t done it because he hadn’t trusted them—far from it—but talking about why he was running inevitably involved _thinking_ about why he was running, and he couldn’t do that without feeling like Seojun’s hands were tearing off his skin and worming their way into his guts. So. He’d been purposefully vague, and they thankfully hadn’t pried.

He’d felt guilty, back then, for not telling them, especially when they were risking so much by letting him come along. But in that moment, as Chan was haltingly going over what had sent them fleeing from Busan and careening into each other in the process, he was glad for it, because the only thing Chan said to Woojin about him was that he was fleeing the Cheolgwon jo-pok, and nothing else.

Woojin, for his worth, seemed concerned, but unsurprised by Chan’s tales of the multiple ways in which he’d almost lost his life, or by the mentions of the various crimes Changbin had committed. It made Jisung curious about the kind of people Woojin dealt with, the people that he helped hide. Were they all criminals, too? Were any of them killers, or—or rapists, or kidnappers? Would he help anyone, for the right price, no matter how awful they were?

“—but by then we were already most of the way here,” Chan was saying. “We should really only stay for long enough to get some sleep, and maybe some new clothes. Oh, and our car is stolen?”

The last bit was more of a question than a statement. Woojin grinned, and Jisung was distinctly reminded of a teddy bear.

“Are you asking if you can take one of my cars, Channie?” he asked teasingly. “And make me clean up your mess?”

Chan’s ears went red at the nickname, and something in Jisung’s chest twisted into a little knot at the sight. He dropped his gaze to his lap, fingers coming to play with the zipper of Changbin’s jacket as Chan spluttered, uncharacteristically flustered.

“Breathe,” Woojin reminded, and Chan nodded emphatically, taking in a comically large gulp of air. “You can take the sedan in the garage. I’ll deal with your car.”

The conversation began to turn towards more mundane topics—at one point Chan asked about what food they’d have for breakfast the next day—and that nap back in the car really hadn’t done much for Jisung if even the mention of food was unable to perk him up. Instead, he stared at the curl of his fingers around the zipper with heavily-lidded eyes, Woojin and Chan’s voices dropping off into a low murmur in the background.

* * *

“Is he asleep?” Woojin asked carefully, eyeing the boy on his couch.

Chan tried to hold back a laugh at the way Jisung’s mouth hung open, his head lolling back in a way that his neck would regret if he stayed there much longer. “Yeah. Poor kid’s had a tough night.”

Woojin sat back at that, giving him one of his patented Are-You-Sure-You-Know-What-The-Fuck-You’re-Doing looks. He’d been sneaking them to Chan ever since Jisung and Changbin had stepped out of the car, and while Chan knew his concern was reasonable, he hadn’t wanted to have this conversation in front of either of them. He knew what a leap they’d made in entrusting themselves to each other, and the last thing he wanted was for that to be questioned by his infuriatingly reasonable best friend.

But Jisung was blowing air bubbles on their couch, something Chan had anticipated—it was the reason he’d suggested that he go to sleep in the first place. The suggestion had probably come off as patronizing to him, though, given the stubbornness of his refusal and his insistence on staying up despite his obvious exhaustion. He couldn’t blame him for wanting to know what he and Woojin were talking about, and so he’d let him stay.

“I don’t know how to say it in a way that would satisfy you,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. Woojin was one of the few people he’d be this shatteringly honest with. “I know they’ve got their own demons, I know I’d be better off sticking to myself. But it feels like, it feels like _fate_ or something—just, that we were all leaving everything behind, and that we all found each other.”

Woojin still looked skeptical—understandably so, given that Chan was spouting the sort of sentimental bullshit he’d never bought into in the first place—but he still pressed forward, hoping that eventually he’d be able to fumble his words together enough to get him to understand just how impossible it would be, to leave these two behind.

“They were—they _are_ —so scared, Woojinnie,” he said. “Fuck, I’m—I’m scared, too, I’m terrified. But it’s not so bad when we’re together.”

“Chan.” Woojin looked tired more than angry at this point, which Chan guessed had to be some sort of win. He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees. “I don’t think you need me to tell you that you’re in some serious shit. You can’t just take in every pretty, lost boy who comes your way.”

That wasn’t it. That wasn’t it _at all._

“They chose me, to come along with them,” he said urgently. “Before I even decided I wanted them with me, Jisung basically told me to get in the car. Doesn’t it say something, that they were the ones who reached out first? I’m not swooping in here and saving them because I think they’re _pretty_. I want to keep them safe, because they wanted to do the same for me.”

And that was the truth of it. He couldn’t deny that he found them beautiful, both of them—Changbin with the wickedly handsome cut of his grin, Jisung with his achingly pretty smile. Couldn’t deny that any brush of their skin upon his lit all of his nerve endings alight with a sort of fire he’d never felt before.

But before all of that, before he’d really had the chance to process the forces of nature that were _them_ , Jisung had looked him over, and had gotten back in the car. And Changbin had curled his lip, and had followed him.

They’d looked at him, and had welcomed him in their own way, despite their own terror. What else could he have done, except pull himself together for their sakes?

Woojin still didn’t seem pleased with him, but he’d gone into this situation expecting that. He at least seemed too tired to argue the point further, which was a relief, because he was exhausted. He’d laughed Jisung off earlier, but he’d been right that Chan had probably been too sleep-deprived to drive safely. There had just been no better option at the time, with Changbin even more dead on his feet than he’d been, and Jisung apparently unable to be bothered to get a license.

“Listen, I know I can’t dissuade you, not once you’ve set your sights on something,” Woojin said, his voice sharp with concern. “But you don’t know anything about these boys. As far as criminals go, you’re as good as they get, Chan. You’ve never deliberately hurt another person. Can you say the same about Changbin? The Beongjae jo-pok is famous for their brutality. And can you say the same about Jisung?”

He nodded to the boy asleep on the couch, where a patch of dried blood was visible on the skin at the base of his neck where the jacket—obviously Changbin’s—had fallen away. Chan’s eyes dipped lower, getting caught up in the delicate slope of Jisung’s collarbones, before he cleared his throat and looked away.

“That blood’s gotta come from someone,” Woojin continued, “and it’s not him. I know I can’t make you ditch them, but please, just be careful, okay?”

“When have you known me not to be?” Chan asked. He smiled, trying to reassure him. “I’m cautious to a fault, you know that.”

Woojin just shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile on his lips.

Chan’s smile widened, and he stood up, stepping carefully over to the couch.

“D’you mind taking the pullout?” he asked. “I’ll put Jisung in the guest bedroom, and share with Changbin.”

Woojin hummed his agreement, but Chan was focused on sliding his arms under Jisung to lift him up as gently as he could, to avoid disturbing his sleep. He tried not to get too caught up in the way that Jisung’s head dipped forward until his face was pressed against his neck, or in the way that his arm curled so easily around his tiny waist.

He didn’t quite succeed, judging from the smug look on Woojin’s face, and so he stuck out his tongue at him as he exited the room.

Jisung didn’t stir when Chan set him down on the bed. He’d pegged him to be a heavy sleeper, given the way he hadn’t moved at all earlier, even when Chan had stopped the car and gotten out to call Woojin. That, or he was just exhausted from whatever hell he’d been put through that had ended up in enough blood to get the Cheolgwon jo-pok out for his head.

He didn't care that Jisung couldn't tell them about what had happened to him; he knew that he'd tell them on his own terms, in his own time. There was no need to rush his processing of what was obviously a recent trauma.

Chan tucked a blanket around Jisung before turning out the lights, and if his hand lingered a little in the boy’s hair before he left, no one needed to know.

He paused in the doorway of the bedroom where Changbin was asleep In any other situation, he’d have felt a low, humming thrill at the base of his spine at the idea of him and Changbin together in a bed. At that moment, he felt a bit too much like a walking, talking zombie to even think about getting up to anything that night. Day. Whatever.

But then Changbin rolled over towards him, as he was stripping down to his boxers. He called out his name, voice rough with sleep, and maybe something else, and all of Chan’s _want_ tied itself into a knot, tight and low in his stomach. And then he was getting into the bed, and they were pressed together, lost in the slide of skin on skin, in the tangle of their legs, and in the firm press of Changbin’s hips against his.

Fingers wrapped around one of his arms, tapping there lightly. Nervously.

“Am I reading this right?” Changbin asked lowly.

Chan kissed him by means of response.

He’d imagined kissing Changbin several times, since Changbin had first rolled up to him and punched him square on the mouth. Then, he’d only had the fire in his eyes and the force of his fist to go on, and all of the scenarios in his mind had involved the recklessness and roughness of their first encounter. None of the kisses he’d imagined had been quite as gentle as this one ended up being, almost without him intending it to be.

Maybe it was his exhaustion.

Maybe it was the uncertainty in Changbin’s touch.

Either way, the press of their mouths was tender in a way that felt a thousand times more intimate than what he could’ve imagined. Changbin’s lips were chapped, but he was warm, and his grip was firm when his hand snaked up to clasp the back of Chan’s neck, holding him close for just a moment before pulling away.

“G’night,” Changbin slurred, and rolled over, apparently to go to sleep.

Chan blinked into the darkness for a few seconds, taken off guard by the abruptness of it. He half wondered if he’d imagined it, but the lingering sense of warmth on his lips was something that couldn’t be faked.

“Good night,” he whispered back.

Changbin grunted in response, snaking back a hand to pull him closer against him.

Figures that he’d want to be the little spoon.

Chan burrowed his face into his shoulder, and curled himself around him. Lying like this, with the curves of their bodies fitted together seamlessly, he fell into sleep almost immediately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kim woojin is not mean!!! he is just (reasonably) worried about his friend, who is running for his life and has simultaneously decided to be ride or die for two complete strangers!!!
> 
> this chapter was an absolute bitch to write, it was only meant to be 3000 words i don't know what happened. on another note, the next chapter is the one that literally inspired this entire fic so y'all better get hype


	7. Chapter Seven

Changbin was _stressed._

It was partway through the afternoon, and they’d only just gotten on the road. None of them had woken up until well after noon, a fact that he blamed on their sleep schedules being shot to shit from driving all through the night before.

But Uljin, the town on the coast where they were headed, was only a few hours’ drive away. It wasn’t that big of a deal that they’d gotten such a late start.

In fact, they’d taken their sweet time that morning, making sure they’d taken full advantage of the resources the safe house had to offer—showers, breakfast, everything. And Woojin hadn’t let them leave without making them take supplies; not only had they traded out their car for a more legitimately-acquired one, but he’d given them all a change of clothes, and a few burner phones. Chan had been given a janky-looking old laptop, which had given him an expression like he’d won the lottery for reasons Changbin didn’t understand. And Woojin had let Changbin take a number of books and a notebook from the living room. If Woojin and Chan, of all people, didn’t feel that there was a rush, then Changbin wasn’t worried.

What was stressing Changbin out wasn’t their schedule. It wasn’t even the constant, pressing fear of the jo-poks catching up to them—it had been less than a day, and already that had settled down into a baseline sense of dull panic. It was enough to make him feel slightly on edge at all times, but it wasn’t enough to keep him awake at night or anything.

No, it was _Chan._

If Chan had been distracting before last night, he was nothing short of _infuriating_ now that Changbin knew in detail what he tasted like, knew about the freckles dotting his ribcage and the dimples at the base of his spine. He couldn’t even look at him without remembering the heat of skin pressed against skin, of his hot breath against his throat, the low noise of protest he’d made when Changbin had pulled away. Every time they touched, even a casual brush of their arms, it sent a spark of heat down through his core.

It didn’t help that Chan seemed to _know_ , that his lips quirked up at the sides every time he rested an arm around his shoulders and made him fumble for his words. It was hard to hold onto his train of thought, much less finish a sentence, when all he could think about was how _good_ it had felt last night.

And then there was Jisung.

Changbin had thought that, after kissing Chan, he’d be a little less distracted by Jisung. But then he’d been sent to wake him up, had walked into the guest bedroom and seen him curled up in the tiniest little ball right in the center of the bed. The blankets had been pulled up around him like a cocoon, leaving only his head visible. His hair had been askew, flopping messily back from his forehead. One of his cheeks had been squished from where it had been pressed up against the pillow, which had been connected to his mouth by a thin line of drool.

And he’d been so beautiful that Changbin had done nothing but stand there in the doorway, staring dumbly, for what must have been minutes. He’d wondered, idly, what it would feel like to press up against his tanned skin, if the brush of their lips would steal his breath like it had with Chan. He’d snapped out of it only once Jisung had turned over in his sleep and he’d realized how creepy he’d have looked, if Jisung had woken then.

He should have maybe felt a little fucked up, kissing Chan one night and then wishing he could do the same with Jisung only hours later. But he couldn’t bring himself to feel that it was anything other than inevitable. Something about Chan had pulled him in sharply, in a way that was hot and messy and _right_. And something about Jisung had pulled him in so quickly and naturally that he’d barely even noticed. While Chan felt like he’d wormed his way under his skin, simmering just beneath the surface, Jisung had already cozied up somewhere inside his heart as if it were a second home. Nothing about either of them could ever feel wrong.

That morning, in Jisung’s bedroom, he’d woken him up without touching him. It didn’t matter if he was forward with Chan—who he knew could take it just as much as he could dish it out—but he knew it _mattered_ with Jisung. Jisung, who flinched at even the softest of touches when he couldn’t see them coming. Whose cockiness melted away the second someone raised their voice. Who, Changbin suspected, was running more from what had been done to him rather than who had done it.

He’d caved, just the slightest bit, at the sight of Jisung trudging sleepily around the kitchen in a jacket too broad for his shoulders. After making sure Jisung could see him, he’d reached out and ruffled his hair, briefly, to see if it was as soft as it looked.

(It was.)

The look Jisung had given him right after was similar to the one he was sporting right then; only this time, it wasn’t aimed towards him.

“Look, look,” he was saying, stumbling over his own words in his excitement. “It’s the ocean!”

He’d started doing this—gluing himself to the window and announcing their surroundings as they appeared, as if Changbin and Chan couldn’t see them for themselves—about an hour after they’d left, once he’d apparently grown bored of the radio. Neither of them had asked him to shut up; neither of them had the heart to, not when faced with the childish delight on his face.

“We just came from Busan, dumbass,” Changbin snorted, glancing back in the rearview mirror so Jisung could see he was teasing. A sharp exhale came from beside him; when he looked over, Chan was looking out the window innocently, pressing his lips together to contain his laughter. Changbin bared his teeth in a grin at the sight.

“Binnie-hyung is so mean,” Jisung whined, but his smile remained just as blinding as it had been before, and he kept his eyes trained on the sight of the white sand through the window. “Of course it’s the same ocean, but it looks so different, see? See?”

To tell the truth, Changbin wasn’t sure he could, but he kept it to himself.

Then they rounded the base of the hill, and Uljin came into view. Jisung immediately scrambled over towards the opposite side of the car, blabbering on excitedly about the cozy little houses and the cute little boats and the tiny people visible on what looked to be one of the main docks—Changbin made sure to hum at the appropriate points, but mostly tuned him out.

Chan had warned him that Uljin was small, and that they’d be staying on the very outskirts near the beach, just for good measure. Changbin had trusted his judgment, but had also wanted to see it for himself, just to make sure he agreed with him that it would be safe. They were only staying the night, but now that they’d made it to the coast, being spotted in the area could jeopardize the entire rest of their planned trip.

Thankfully, Changbin was pretty sure this would be a safe stop for them. Since this took them further from Seoul, out of their way, for the next couple of days at least they might have the jo-poks off their trail. That meant their efforts wouldn’t be focused in these areas, but that couldn’t guarantee that they wouldn’t have a man or two even in smaller cities like this. Korea was a small country, and this was only about half a days’ drive from Busan, so it wouldn’t be inconceivable for both the Cheolgwon jo-pok and the Beongjae jo-pok to have some influence here.

It was pretty damn unlikely that they’d run into them where Chan was pointing them, though—so close to the shore that they’d have to park the car and finish the last few minutes on foot. The hotel where they’d be staying was little more than a two-story building right at the crest of a small bay that was almost empty of other buildings. It looked like the town was a little more substantial a minute or so further inland—like there might be more hotels, and a convenience store or two.

“I’ll check in for us,” Chan said, motioning for Changbin to pull over the car. “You two are the most recognizable right now, so you hang back until I’m done.”

Before he stepped out of the car, Changbin jammed one of Woojin’s baseball caps down over his head, watching as Chan did the same. Jisung, whose hair was arguably the most ridiculous and identifiable out of all of them, pulled on a beanie, and bent over at one of the side mirrors to push any visible bits of his hair beneath the edges. Changbin wasn’t sure what had possessed him to dye it _blue_ , of all things—it was not only recognizable but attention-grabbing, and unless he wanted to glue that beanie to his head for the rest of their trip, he’d have to take care of it soon.

And the beanie did nothing for his face. Changbin reached out to tug the hood of Woojin’s borrowed sweatshirt up, pulling it forward a little further than necessary. As he finished, he made the mistake of meeting Jisung’s eyes, and the sheer _trust_ in his eyes was so raw that he froze for just a second too long before remembering to take away his hands.

Jisung’s eyes narrowed slightly, but Changbin’s frantic prayers to any kind of god that might be listening seemed to have worked, because he didn’t comment on whatever he’d noticed.

Changbin was terrified that there was nothing he could hide from him, that Jisung could rip his heart out from his chest and pin it right to his sleeve, laid bare for everyone to see, with just a single look.

Once they stepped inside, and Changbin had confirmed the lack of security cameras in the tiny room that was probably supposed to be a lobby, he took Jisung’s wrist and pulled him over to the far corner. He made sure to keep Jisung’s back to the aging woman at the front desk. While _he_ was used to angling his face to keep his most identifiable features obscured, he doubted Jisung had practice with the same.

They didn’t speak, both a little too tense at facing their first stranger, in public, since they’d met. It was a relief when Chan made his way back to them, an easy, practiced smile on his face; they both let out a little breath they hadn’t known they’d been holding, so synchronized that Jisung let out a little giggle of surprise.

His attention was abruptly distracted when Chan held up two hotel keys instead of three.

“Figured it’d make more sense for us to share rooms if we’re your typical, broke travelers,” he said, but his gaze never once wavered from Changbin.

So it was going to be like that, huh.

“You fucker,” Changbin muttered, though the heat in the words didn’t stem from irritation. He glanced over towards Jisung, and tried to sound a little less like he was about to eat Chan alive. “You’d better have gotten us a king bed, at least.”

“Only the best for Princess Changbin,” Chan teased, holding one key out to Jisung and pocketing the other.

Changbin inhaled sharply. He wanted nothing more than to cover Chan’s smartass mouth with his own and bite at his lip until the smug smile slid off his face, but Jisung was still standing cluelessly in between them, so he instead turned up his nose and marched off towards the stairs.

Their rooms were about what Changbin had expected from their budget. He and Chan had agreed that, despite their ample funds, they’d attract less attention if they stayed away from flashier purchases. So their rooms were a little small, and the wallpaper was peeling in some places. But they were clean enough, and had a pretty good view of the beach, so. He was happy enough with it.

Chan hadn’t been kidding about the king bed, but now wasn’t the time to be distracted.

“It would be best if we stayed low, in here,” Chan tried, after they’d poked around their rooms enough to satisfy their curiosity.

Jisung shot up indignantly from where he’d splayed himself out on Chan and Changbin’s bed, and Changbin sent Chan a pitying look, because there was no way Jisung wouldn’t be getting his way.

“But I wanna go to the beach,” he whined.

Chan pressed his lips together, clearly trying to maintain his resolve. Changbin didn’t bother holding back his grin as he looked between the two, content to watch the miniature showoff and Chan’s inevitable concession.

“We don’t want to attract attention,” Chan pointed out. “What if someone notices us while we’re out?”

“This is practically a ghost town,” Jisung insisted, bouncing slightly on the edge of the bed with frustration. “The beach is literally _empty,_ why can’t we just go for a little while? I’m going to _die_ of boredom if we stare in here, please, hyung.”

Then he pouted, his lower lip trembling as if he were a child about to have a meltdown after being told ‘no.’ Changbin suspected that he was exaggerating on purpose. It should have looked ridiculous, a twenty-something acting like a toddler; it was completely unfair that he somehow still managed to come across as cute.

“That’s gross,” Chan said, but he was smiling.

Jisung perked up immediately. “That means we can go, right?”

Chan looked over towards Changbin, who put his hands up in the gesture that universally meant _no way am I getting involved in this._ He groaned, glancing skyward as if praying for patience, but nodded.

 _“Hell_ yeah!” Jisung screeched, flinging himself into Chan’s arms.

An immediate panicked look came over Chan’s face, and Changbin garnered a glare of betrayal when he let out an audible snicker. Chan reached a hand up to hover over Jisung’s back, before carefully patting him in what was probably meant to be a placating gesture.

“You’re the best, hyung,” Jisung mumbled into his shoulder. Chan’s ears turned red, and Changbin watched them both fondly.

So, instead of shutting themselves up safely in their rooms, they piled out onto the beach. It was a little bit of a sad excuse for a beach, in Changbin’s opinion; it was pretty small, a little ring of white around the edge of the bay, and it was only a few yards from the hotel. He was pretty sure that there were stretches of beach a bit further south, towards the rest of the town, that would be a little bit nicer.

But this was safer for them, and Jisung seemed to find the privacy fascinating, somehow.

“I’ve never had a beach all to myself,” he was saying, eyes wide with awe as he looked around. “Isn’t this really cool?”

Changbin and Chan made placating noises of agreement from where they were sitting, a bit further away from the water. Changbin had brought one of Woojin’s books—it was a romance novel, but he didn’t really have anything else to pass the time with, so there was no use in complaining. Chan, in a decision that puzzled Changbin, had brought along the shitty laptop Woojin had given him. Changbin still wasn’t sure why Chan was so excited about a laptop, or what he could do with it given that there was no internet. But Chan had a thumb drive with him, and he looked excited, so he wasn’t about to rain on his parade by being nosy.

Jisung, meanwhile, seemed perfectly content to roam the beach by himself, exploring every little nook and cranny with a bounce in his step that reminded Changbin distinctly of a curious puppy. Every now and then, when he found something he deemed interesting, he’d call back to them:

“Look, I found a sand dollar!”

“Hyungs, this pebble has white spots!”

“There’s a piece of driftwood out there, see? See?”

He had slightly different standards for what counted as ‘interesting’ than Changbin probably did himself, but his excitement was somehow contagious. And if Changbin smiled to himself a little at the prospect of a spotted pebble, well, no one needed to know.

Woojin’s romance novel made its way from his hands to his lap and then to the sand, as he gave up even the pretense of reading. Jisung’s reactions were a thousand times more interesting than whatever he’d be reading, anyways. This was proven when Jisung, bored of picking things up from the beach, decided to go barefoot. As soon as he’d pulled off his socks, he whipped around, eye sparkling, and shot Changbin a delighted grin.

Changbin forgot how to breathe, just for a moment.

“Hyungs, hyungs,” Jisung shouted, wiggling his toes around in the sand. “Holy shit, the sand’s really soft!”

“I’m sure it is,” Changbin called back, fighting back a smile.

“It’s like he’s never seen a beach before,” Chan said, and he looked over to see him leaning back on his palms, the laptop closed beside him. There was a fond look in his eyes that undermined the bite of his words.

“You think it’s adorable,” he shot back, and nodded at his closed laptop. “You’ve been staring, haven’t you?”

“Haven’t _you?”_ Chan asked.

A shriek came from down the beach, jerking their attention back over to where Jisung had apparently decided to wade into the water. Given the cooler weather and the way Jisung was dancing back and forth, still yelping, the water was probably freezing. He was hiking his basketball shorts up with both hands, and looked absolutely ridiculous. Changbin tried to hold back a laugh, but failed when Jisung turned around and he saw how his face was screwed up from the cold.

“Hyungs!” he called, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal. “Stop being boring! Come over!”

Chan tilted his head to one side. “I’m not sure, is it warm?” he asked, a sarcastic lilt to his tone, but he was already going to stand.

Jisung shot them a mischievous grin. “Sure, it feels _just_ like a hot spring,” he teased, and took a step backwards, further into the water, as if to prove his point. He seemed so sure of himself that Changbin would have believed him, if not for the white-knuckled grip he had on his shorts and the ramrod-straight set of his spine.

Changbin had a sudden idea, and looked over to Chan. Guessing from the expression on his face, he was thinking the same thing.

He stood up, making his way over to the water with Chan.

“I sure hope our Jisungie isn’t lying,” he said to Chan in his best fake conversational tone, loudly enough to be sure that Jisung could hear him.

“Oh, me too,” Chan replied, equally dramatically. “Because what do we do to liars, Changbin?”

Changbin kicked off his shoes, and smirked. “We dunk ’em.”

Jisung’s mouth fell open, and he backed up, glancing between them. Given the growing panic on his face, he’d probably come to the same conclusion Changbin had, which was that he and Chan were definitely capable of picking him up, given that they worked out and Jisung was built kind of like a noodle.

“Wait wait wait,” he begged, holding his hands out in front of him beseechingly. “You don’t wanna do this, hyungs, come on—”

With Chan right beside him, Changbin waded into the water, growling a little in displeasure as the icy water swirled around his bare feet.

“Hyungs,” Jisung repeated, his voice growing louder in panic for every step they took closer to him. “Wait! Stop!”

Chan got to Jisung first, smiling at him angelically but taking a firm hold of his wrists. Changbin started to bend down to grab at his ankles underwater.

“Chan hyung, I love you, you’re my favorite,” Jisung pleaded, apparently deciding that Chan was the weaker link between the two of them. “Please don’t dunk me, it’s so cold—”

Changbin glanced up at Chan to see if he was ready, and saw him hesitating, the traitor. He cleared his throat expectantly, and raised an eyebrow when Chan looked down at him. He could practically _see_ the guy’s resolve building itself back up. He shook his head in exasperation, though he was secretly a bit glad that Jisung had addressed Chan instead of him. Because Changbin wasn’t sure how he’d react if Jisung told him he loved him, but it would in all likelihood probably be damning.

“Jisungie,” Chan said, his voice so level that it sent chills down Changbin’s spine. “I thought you said the water was warm.”

When Jisung gulped, it was audible to both of them.

* * *

They were all still damp by the time Chan forced them back inside for dinner.

“I can’t believe you betrayed me,” Chan huffed, apparently still stuck up on earlier.

Changbin shrugged, tearing off a piece of chicken with his teeth. “You were _this_ close to betraying me for Jisung, hyung,” he pointed out, once he finished chewing. “Just because you got back on track eventually didn’t mean you were immune to being dunked.”

“Plus, you got him back,” Jisung added, cheeks so full of half-chewed food he looked like a chipmunk.

“That’s disgusting,” Chan and Changbin said at the same time, and he pouted, somehow stuffing even _more_ food into his mouth.

Chan shook his head, before leveling Changbin with a look so intense he felt his legs go weak. “Don’t begin to _think_ that we’re even, though,” he warned, his words laced with an unspoken promise of _more._

“Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Changbin grinned, and reached out with his foot under the table to press against the inside of Chan’s leg, relishing in the way he jumped at the contact.

Jisung looked back and forth between them, before swallowing his mouthful and launching into an animated retelling of some of his more interesting encounters with people during his time working at a convenience store.

At the beginning of his story, Changbin slipped off his shoe, and as he continued to talk, he slid his socked foot higher and higher up along Chan’s tensed thigh. The higher he got, the more tightly Chan clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth together. Changbin grinned like a cat that had captured a canary; Chan couldn’t retaliate or tell him off without tipping Jisung off to the thing between them. And even though they hadn’t explicitly talked about it—about the kiss—they’d both silently agreed not to bring it up to him, not yet. It was still too new, and their relationships with each other were still too fragile to risk shifting the balance or making things weird. Chan would probably—would definitely—get him back, later, in private, but in that moment, he was trapped.

Changbin’s grin widened, and he rubbed circles into Chan’s inner thigh. So he could do whatever he wanted.

“And then I told him I was sorry his wife was cheating on him, because what else could that have meant? And then _he_ yelled at _me_ for saying it, because apparently he hadn’t put it together yet! Isn’t that crazy?” Jisung finished.

“Yeah, Chan,” Changbin hummed. “Isn’t that _crazy?”_

He pressed his toes against Chan’s cock through his jeans, and Chan pushed his chair back with a screech, standing up abruptly.

“Bathroom,” he blurted, ears bright red, and practically sprinted away from the table.

Jisung watched him go, his brow furrowed slightly in confusion. “What’s up with him?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” Changbin replied, hiding his smile in the palm of his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is late bc i'm in italy and my data here is TRASH. T R A S H, my dudes. also, this chapter ended up getting too long and i split it in two, which is why there's only one pov this chapter. next one should be up in a week, because it's already mostly written, so look forward to some chan next time!!


	8. Chapter Eight

Changbin’s lips were on his before he even finished locking their door.

Chan thought back to their dinner, and he brought both hands up to Changbin’s shoulders, shoving him away with a little more force than strictly necessary. The betrayed expression on Changbin’s face made up a little for the smug way he’d eyed him over the table, all while his foot crept higher and higher up Chan’s leg, getting closer and _closer_ but never actually—

Okay, it made up for it a little bit. But not nearly enough.

Not yet.

“You, Seo Changbin, are an asshole,” he snapped, or tried to, but he got too distracted in the roll of his name off his tongue to remember to sound angry.

“Am I?” Changbin teased, a lopsided smirk spreading across his face. He grabbed at the back of his T-shirt, yanking it up and over his head. It got a bit stuck over his head on the way up, and it should have been decidedly _unsexy_ , but this was the first time Chan was seeing him shirtless in the light. It would have been impossible to see the light playing off of the dips and swells of his muscles, the way his shoulders tapered so nicely to his narrow hips, and think it was anything less than heart-stoppingly perfect.

It took Chan’s brain a few seconds to route enough attention away from Changbin and back to his hands enough for him to try to fumble the door closed. The latch clicked in the door, fucking _finally,_ and he burst forward with a low, frustrated noise, crossing the distance between them in a few short strides.

He wasn’t exactly gentle when he grabbed Changbin by the waist, or when he pushed them the rest of the way to the bed, but it was hard to think about things like _soft_ and _gentle_ when Changbin’s hands were in his hair, his fingernails scraping against his scalp as he latched on and _pulled_ —

Chan felt a little bit like he might die if he didn’t kiss him again, so he leaned forward to capture his lips. Changbin gave an enthusiastic hum, pressing him closer, and he was _strong_ , their lips mashing together like they were trying to fuse their bodies into one through sheer force alone. He tried to lick into Chan’s mouth, but _no_ , he wasn’t the one in charge here, so Chan bit down on his lower lip. He shuddered, melting slightly under his hands and letting out a little moan, and that was more like it. The grip in his hair tightened, and Changbin was still arching his back up into his touch, still giving as good as he got, but the power was shifting.

Changbin might be the one to rile him up over dinner, but Chan was the one leading the kiss, was the one pressing him back into the mattress and reaching down to grind the base of his palm against his cock through his jeans.

“Fuck,” Changbin panted, into his mouth, and Chan could tell that he was holding himself back, was trying not to be too loud. It drove his imagination crazy—if they were somewhere else, he just _knew_ that Changbin would be _loud_ , and if he had an ounce less impulse control, he would’ve still seen if he could’ve made him scream, neighbors and jo-poks be damned. As it was, the thought of Jisung hearing them next door—oh god, _Jisung_ —was enough for him to file that thought away for later.

When they were somewhere safe, and didn’t have to worry about being quiet, Chan was going to map every inch of Changbin’s body with his own, was going to prod and press and pry all of the noises out of him—from little gasps to full-on screams. God, he wanted to make Changbin _scream_ , but he _couldn’t_ , and it was riling him up more than anything else had that night.

Still.

“Thought you were such a tease, huh, tryna rub me off under the dinner table,” Chan gasped, pressing down harder with his palm until Changbin pressed his lips together and made a little, strangled noise. “In front of everyone, and with fucking _Jisung_ sitting across from me, huh?”

He hadn’t believed it when he’d first felt the press against his leg, under the table, even when he'd looked across at Changbin and had seen the wicked look on his eyes and the all-too pleased smile on his face. He hadn’t believed it because it had been so damn irresponsible, acting out like that, as if they weren’t keeping a low profile because they had _jo-poks_ after them literally trying to _kill them all—_

“You got off on it,” Changbin said, his eyes wide and bright and utterly unapologetic. “You did, I could feel you, just like now, _fuck_ , lemme—”

He snaked a hand down, slipped it under the waistband of his sweats into his boxers, and wrapped calloused fingers around his cock. Chan fumbled for words and then lost them, could do nothing but drop his head onto Changbin’s sweaty shoulder and bite out curses against his skin. He didn’t care if Changbin had been stupid, couldn’t bring himself to care about _anything_ when Changbin was touching him like this. This, _this_ was what he’d been waiting for, since that first punch, for the heat and the _want_ and the sweet, searing slide of Changbin’s hand against his skin.

He squeezed Changbin’s hip with his free hand until he was sure it would bruise, relishing in the way his body arched into his touch despite—or maybe because of—the pain. Fuck, he couldn’t remember the last time someone, _anyone_ , had gotten him like this, had stripped away all of his worries and his responsibilities and his nerves with just the heat of their touch.

“M’gonna fuck you,” he mumbled into the hollow of his throat, and he _felt_ Changbin gulp. “But you’re gonna beg me for it first.”

“You’re gonna have to work a little, ah, harder than this, if you’re gonna talk big like that,” Changbin said, and if it weren’t for the blissed-out look on his face and the red high on his cheekbones Chan could almost have believed him.

Chan felt that sinking his teeth into the stretch of skin where Changbin’s neck met his shoulders was an appropriate response, and the noise that Changbin made in response was nothing short of _needy._ He smirked against Changbin’s skin; it figured that he’d be the type to talk big game but unravel at even a hint of teeth.

Then Changbin’s thumb did something fucking magical at the head of his cock, and before he could even quite realize what he was doing he was sitting back, acting on the mind-numbing desire for _more_. He pulled Changbin back with him and then pushed down on his shoulders until he got the memo and dropped to his knees.

Changbin all but purred, despite the loss of friction, and wrapped a hand around him once again. He looked up at him through his lashes, looking so fucking smug that Chan realized he’d probably wanted this all along, but _god_ if he wasn’t the hottest thing Chan had ever seen. He couldn’t bring himself to care about who was winning or losing, not when Changbin was looking up at him like that and leaning in with his spit-slick lips parted and—

Someone knocked on their door, and Chan’s boner deflated so quickly in Changbin’s hand he would have laughed, if he hadn’t been so terrified. He didn’t move to cover himself, didn’t blink, didn’t even breathe—couldn’t have if he’d wanted to—so paralyzed by the _fear_ that they’d been caught. Again. He had no idea _how_ they could’ve possibly been caught. They’d been so _careful_.

A roiling ball of hysteria rose up in him; it felt like a bubble, growing and growing and pressing out against his insides. His mind was racing as he thought back to every little action he’d taken, every decision he’d made, every person they’d run into or camera they could’ve crossed, checking and re-checking to try to figure out what could have given them away—

Changbin quickly tucked him back into his pants, breaking him out of his spiraling train of thought. He looked up at him silently as he stood, and the heat in his eyes had been replaced with nothing but cold determination. He reached forward to grab at Chan’s wrist, pulling him along, and Chan followed him numbly, nearly boneless, until he realized that Changbin had dragged him over to the bathroom, and was trying to move him inside.

He scratched at the hand around his wrist, throwing it off. “There is no way in _hell_ I am hiding while you—”

If someone had really caught up to them—if they were about to open the door to fucking _Shin_ or someone like that on the other side—then this was the end of the line. He couldn’t think of a way that they could get out of this; even if they somehow managed to escape the hotel, it would be almost impossible to get Jisung out with them, and even then it would be impossible to get out of a town as tiny as Uljin without being noticed. Whatever this was, Chan wouldn’t—couldn’t—just hide and let it happen, not when he’d taken responsibility for both of them, when it was _his_ fault that they’d gotten caught in the first place.

But before he could finish, Changbin grabbed him again, this time squeezing so tightly he could feel the delicate bones in his wrist grinding together. The pain grounded him, and the absolute _fury_ in Changbin’s face shut his mouth abruptly.

“This is _not_ the end for us, you hear me?” Changbin hissed. “Between us two, I’m the better liar _and_ the better fighter. Trust me to get us out of this. Out here, you’re just someone else I have to worry about. In there, I can trust that you’re okay. So you’re gonna sit pretty there in the corner and shut up, do you understand me? If I’m going to trust you to protect us and get us out of this, you need to step the fuck down the second you know you’re out of your depth.”

He was right, because of course he was, and Chan gritted his teeth to force back his protests. It would’ve been impossible not to listen to him when he was like this, with his biting tone and his hard eyes that were worlds apart from the fondness that had been clear on his face when they’d been in the car earlier, listening to Jisung rambling—

His heart broke free from its place between his ribs and jumped up into his throat.

 _“Jisung,”_ he croaked, grasping at Changbin frantically. “Jisung, is he—”

Changbin grabbed his hands, forcing them still. “You need to _calm down,_ ” he whispered, and Chan wanted to scream at him, but he saw the muscle jumping in his jaw and the desperation in his eyes and realized he was just as terrified.

That alone quelled his protests. When he spoke, he tried his best to sound like his stomach hadn’t just wrenched into a knot. “I’m calm.”

“His room is right next to ours, and I haven’t heard anything.” Changbin’s voice was low and fast. “The second I deal with whoever’s at our door, I’m going to check on him.”

He left no room for argument, and Chan could do nothing but nod.

The knock came a second time, and Chan crossed his arms to hide the shaking of his hands. Changbin gave him a sharp nod, jerking his chin towards the far end of the bathroom. Chan backed up, and only barely held himself back from calling out when Changbin turned the lights off and turned to leave. He knew, logically, that Changbin had to do this, that it was their best bet for survival, but that didn’t make it any easier for him to sit like a child in time-out while Changbin put his life on the line.

Chan was willing—if only barely—to stay put, but he was certainly not willing to stay blind, so he scooched over towards the corner of the bathroom, until the angle brought the front door into view in the bathroom mirror. He was safe like this, in the dark, but he could still see Changbin stepping silently up to the door, rolling back his shoulders to brace himself for whatever might be on the other side.

Changbin took a breath. Chan held his.

He opened the door.

There, standing in the brightly-lit hallway, was Jisung.

But there was no room for relief, because Jisung’s eyes were filled with tears, and his fingers were trembling at his sides. Something was _wrong_ , even if it wasn’t what they’d thought it had been, and Chan started forward without even thinking, mind starting to race once more. As surely as he knew he needed to breathe, he knew that he needed to find out what had happened to make Jisung look like that, so that he could make sure it would never happen again.

Changbin, who was closest, immediately gathered Jisung up in his arms, not even bothering to close the door. Jisung melted into Changbin’s arms so quickly Chan would have been hard pressed to call it anything other than natural. He had always been a bit more comfortable with Changbin than Chan, with the whole touching thing. Chan was hard pressed to envy Changbin for it; they’d all met in different ways, and when you’d known each other for as short a time as they had, those differences made a big impact. He knew that Jisung trusted him just as much as Changbin, and he couldn’t begrudge him for seeking out Changbin’s touch more than his own. Their trust—their relationship—wasn’t _more_ , it was just different.

And so Changbin accepted Jisung easily, instinctively, as if he’d done it a million times before, and began to shuffle them backwards towards the bed, looking between it and Chan pointedly. Chan yielded to Changbin’s silent request, and made his way over to the bed instead of coming straight to them the way his nerves were screaming at him to do, pulling back the scratchy comforter to settle down against the pillows.

He and Changbin had already come to an unspoken agreement that Jisung wouldn’t be going back to his own room that night. Neither of them could even think about leaving him alone. Not when he was like this. Not when he’d come to them, on his own, as if it was instinct.

“Come on,” Changbin murmured into Jisung’s hair, as he maneuvered him towards Chan. “Come over here, Chan’s waiting for you.”

Jisung’s face was buried in Changbin’s chest, and he didn’t look up at all, even as he was bundled over towards the bed. He hadn’t spoken a word this entire time, had barely been able to look either of them in the eyes. Chan had a strong suspicion that he wasn’t processing anything that Changbin was saying.

It scared him, a little.

“Hey, hey,” Chan called softly, reaching out once they were close enough. “C’mere, Jisungie.”

Changbin bent down to tug off Jisung’s shoes, and Chan reached out to wrap an arm around Jisung’s waist, bringing his other hand up to cup the back of his neck and gently pull him away from Changbin. One look at Jisung’s face confirmed what he’d feared—his eyes were glassy and unfocused. He was probably somewhere far, far away right then; he probably had only a vague awareness of what was going on around him or what they were saying.

But even then, as soon as Chan touched him, he folded in towards him, all but crumpling on top of him. Chan could do nothing except guide his forehead down to press against his shoulder, and pull him closer against his chest, and pray that touch alone could do what his words could not, in that moment. Jisung let out a shuddering sort of breath that reached into Chan’s chest and grabbed his heart and _tugged_. He tucked his face in against where Chan’s neck met his shoulder, and reached up to grab at his shirt with shaking hands.

Changbin stood up from where he’d been taking off Jisung’s shoes and prodded gently at his legs until he pulled them into the bed. Chan shifted to tangle their legs together, and Jisung responded by hooking an ankle behind his, bringing their bodies into alignment so that every inch of them was pressed together, from head to toe. Jisung was warm and thin and was shaking ever-so-slightly, and Chan wanted to squeeze him tighter until he phased through the membrane of Chan’s skin, so he could hold him close inside his chest, where nothing could ever hurt him again.

He was brought out of his thoughts by a light tap on his shoulder. “Gonna check the hallway real quick,” Changbin mumbled, and slipped out of the room before he could ask him to stay. Chan only barely remembered in time to force the plea back down, reminding himself once again that Changbin could handle himself and that they’d sleep better knowing they were safe. Even thinking that to himself, though, didn’t quite help the way his heart picked up a little, uneasy at his absence.

Jisung let out a small sigh.

Chan preoccupied himself with stroking his thumb comfortingly along his spine and carding his fingers through the strands of blue hair at the nape of his neck. He wasn’t sure what had possessed him to dye it that color. It kind of made him look like a blueberry, and he was pretty sure he could only pull it off because he was _Jisung_ , and he was one of the prettiest people Chan had ever met.

“You’re alright now,” he soothed, grazing his scalp with his fingernails gently. “Hyungie is here, I’ll protect you.”

By the time Changbin crept back into the room, his soft words and gentle but firm touches had unraveled some of the tension in Jisung’s shoulders, and his breaths had evened out into soft, almost unnoticeable puffs of air against Chan’s neck.

“How is he?” Changbin whispered, after the lock had clicked shut. He toed off his shoes by the door, tiptoeing his way towards the bed. For a moment, before climbing in, he stood there and simply _watched._

Chan had no idea what, exactly, he was looking for; or what he was seeing. His eyes never once left Jisung’s form; they flicked from his head, where it was buried in the hollow of Chan’s throat, to their entangled feet. Something changed in his expression as he watched them together, some sort of softening in the lines of his shoulders and his jaw. It was delicate, and he hadn’t seen that sort of look on Changbin’s face before, and Chan was terrified that if he spoke, or even breathed, it would fall away. It was too strong, too full, for it to be just _fond_.

He couldn’t find a word for it, couldn’t quite figure out what it was, but he wanted to give Changbin a reason to make that face, every day, for the rest of his life.

“Come to bed,” he whispered, only then realizing that he’d been smiling, the sort of easy, unconscious grin that only came when you were absorbed in something you loved.

Changbin rolled his eyes, but slipped in against his right side. He was still shirtless, from earlier, but with Jisung there, the press of their skin together was different. It made something bloom in his chest, but instead of the shocking heat that he’d felt earlier, it was something warm and steady.

Jisung didn’t exactly leave Chan when Changbin got in, but one of his legs settled in between Changbin’s knees, and he shifted over so that his chest was draped over both of them. When he did so, he was slow and deliberate in his movements, so as not to disturb Chan’s hands at his waist and back, and his head from its position in Chan’s shoulder. He was perfectly tucked in between them, right where they wanted him, where it felt like they could shield him from whatever was out there in the world that had driven him to their room that night.

Chan couldn’t sleep completely peacefully, that night, even though everyone important to him was right where he wanted them, nestled safely in his arms. Things with Jisung were so delicate; he was so open about anything and everything in his life, except for the big gaping hole, which until then they had all silently agreed to avoid. But he couldn’t forget just _how_ Jisung had ended up in their bed that night; couldn’t forget the stark fear on his face when he’d knocked on their door, or the way he couldn’t bring himself to speak even after they’d calmed him down. He couldn’t be sure that allowing Jisung to bottle himself up was helping him heal, or that it wouldn’t endanger their escape. So when tomorrow came, there would be conversations that they would need to have, ones that would likely be unpleasant but deeply necessary for everyone involved.

But then Changbin reached across Jisung to grab Chan’s hand, lacing their fingers together over Jisung’s waist. Settled in like that, pressed in against both of them, able to feel that they were all warm and alive and _there_ , it was enough.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Chan didn’t even remember falling asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> changbin and chan are jisung's safe place and they all love each other so much please cry about it with me in the comments


	9. Chapter Nine

As the first bits of awareness began to seep towards the front of Jisung’s brain, the first thing he noticed was the all-encompassing sense of _warmth_. It was pressing in on him comfortingly, from all sides, as if he was wrapped in one of his little blanket cocoons.

He knew, without even having to open his eyes, that the warmth was from Chan, and from Changbin.

But it was still nice, when he opened his eyes, to be met with the sight of Changbin’s face, features slack with sleep, mere inches away from him. And he could tell, from the pressure at the crown of his head, that he was securely tucked under Chan’s chin. He could feel Chan’s heartbeat through his shirt, from where his ear was pressed against his chest; could see the rising and falling of his breaths, grounding him in their slow, regular pattern.

He glanced down, and saw that the pressure across his waist came from their intertwined hands.

Jisung wasn’t stupid—at least, not when it came to people. In school, maybe he hadn’t really been able to pull off anything more than passable grades, but he’d had a good amount of friends, and had been connected in some way with practically everyone in his class. The whole networking thing had always come easily to him, because reading people was relatively easy, if you paid enough attention.

It was even easier if they thought they were doing a good job at hiding something.

Changbin might have been a good liar—Chan as well, for all he knew—but they were usually off guard around him, even if they didn’t seem to notice it. He knew this from the way that Changbin didn’t bother to hide the fondness in his face when he was speaking, even if he caught Jisung looking at him. He knew this from the way Chan hadn’t tried to mask the sharp lines of anxiety in his face when they’d first entered Pohang, or when he’d come to their room last night.

So he’d seen the way they’d looked at each other over the table last night—the same way they’d looked at each other right after Changbin had punched Chan square in the mouth, with Changbin all wicked anticipation and Chan so _hungry_ he looked like he was contemplating swallowing Changbin whole. Even yesterday morning, as they’d been getting ready to leave Woojin’s, he’d seen the way they reacted to each other’s touch, as if it burned.

Even now, lying in bed with them, Jisung could see the edges of a bite mark at the junction between Changbin’s neck and his shoulder, one that hadn’t been there at dinner. There was _something_ , something between them. Knowing them, they probably hadn’t really talked about it yet, had been testing and poking and prodding just to see what reactions they could draw out of each other. But he had no doubt that, once this thing between them had gotten past its initial growing pains, it would be big and sprawling and beautiful and _right._

They looked good, _were_ good, together.

And yet.

They’d taken him in so naturally, last night, both of them. His memories were a little bit muddled, maybe, and he was certain that they’d spoken to him but couldn’t quite remember what they’d said, but he could remember how quickly Changbin had enveloped him in his arms, how naturally Chan had pulled him in close and stroked his hair. They’d welcomed him as if it were a reflex, as if he had belonged there, in their bed.

As if he’d belonged there, with them.

And his first instinct upon waking up last night had been to find them. It probably said something that he’d known, on some subconscious level, that they were _safe_ , even when it felt like nothing else in the world was.

Jisung couldn’t quite remember the dream he’d had, but he could remember waking up with a scream dying out in his throat and the terrible, cloying sensation of Seojun’s hands on him, burning through him, and—and the idea of being alone had been unthinkable, at that moment. And he’d been so _scared_. And both of them had been firm and solid and so utterly _real_ that Seojun and what he’d done to him had seemed like nothing more than a faint shadow by comparison.

It would have been impossible to remember Seojun’s touch, when Changbin had cradled him in his arms so gently. Or to fear that he’d find him again, when Chan was holding him so tightly he knew Seojun would never be able to reach him.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of _them._

A hand reached up, a thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. When he glanced over, Changbin’s eyes were open, heavy-lidded from sleep.

“What are you thinking about?” he murmured.

Jisung felt like the warmth in his voice was rolling straight through him and settling comfortably in his stomach. And, while they were still ensconced in this little bubble of sunlight and warmth, where consequences did not exist, he felt no reservations at telling the truth.

“You confuse me,” he admitted, watching Changbin’s face intently for a reaction. “Both of you. I don’t understand why you do what you do.”

_I don’t understand why you’d do this for me,_ went unsaid, but both of them heard it anyways.

Changbin hummed, and the motion of his thumb slowed until he was just cupping Jisung’s cheek. It should have been weird, but as it was, Jisung didn’t hold himself back from leaning into the touch slightly.

“I’m not sure I understand you, either,” he said softly, like he was telling Jisung a secret. “I don’t know why you got in my car, after I almost ran you over.”

“I don’t know why you let me,” Jisung whispered. The words came out a bit more vulnerable than he’d intended, and they hung between them in the air, for just a moment.

Then he felt Chan shifting under him, and heard the quietest breath of a laugh.

“Han Jisung, you are a fool if you think either of us have the power to stop you from doing something once you’ve set your mind to it,” Chan said. The sound of his voice, low and rough with sleep, sent a little thrill down the length of Jisung’s spine.

Changbin hummed once again, this time in agreement. A lazy smile had spread itself across his lips.

Jisung fell silent, mulling over his words. It was true that neither of them had ever really seemed to figure out how to say ‘no’ to him. This manifested mostly in the way Changbin grumbled and rolled his eyes but still turned up the radio whenever Jisung asked him to, in the way Chan had caved so easily when he’d wanted to go to the beach. But it also manifested in their unspoken, seemingly all-encompassing acceptance of his presence, whether that be when he got in the car or when he knocked on their bedroom door. The smaller things made him smile. The bigger ones made his heart swell up, growing and growing until it felt fit to crack open his ribs and fly out of his chest. He couldn’t quite put a name to the latter feeling. It was uncomfortable, like when he stretched a little further than he should, but it was also so warm and fluttery that he wanted to lean into it and never let it go.

He wanted to ask the question dancing right behind his lips, the one that asked _why_. Why couldn’t they bear to tell him ‘no?’ Why wouldn’t they turn him away, even when they brushed arms and eyed each other so intently whenever they thought he wasn’t looking?

But Jisung didn’t know what they’d respond, and he wasn’t sure if he even knew what he wanted them to say.

So, instead of asking, and instead of laying there with them until the day slipped away from them entirely, he pushed himself up onto his elbows and announced, “I call first shower.”

He’d hoped that the break from them would stop him from wanting to ask questions he was scared to know the answer to, would stop him from dwelling on all the ways in which how they treated him made no sense. Would stop this feeling of confusion and awkwardness and hesitance that loomed behind the warm contentment he felt whenever they were near.

Except maybe that had been wishful thinking, because as he dried himself off, he heard them talking outside in hushed voices. And sure, Changbin and Chan were both a bit quieter than he was, but they never really whispered around him, so he carefully pressed his ear to the door. He couldn’t really make out most of their murmurs, but he _did_ make out his name, and realized that they were talking about him, and decided he’d heard enough.

He’d thought that Chan had gotten the message, back at Woojin’s safe house, that he was _not_ okay with being left out of the loop. That he wasn’t about to let himself be pushed aside, made to feel like a kid told to go wait in his room while the adults were talking. But here they were, and they’d waited until he’d left to talk about him, like he was some sort of _problem_ —

Jisung opened the door abruptly, and they fell silent, turning to look at him from where they were sitting on the bed. Changbin was cross-legged, and Chan was leaned forward, and the twitch of their slightly-too-close fingers told him that they’d probably been holding hands before he’d opened the door.

And they’d been talking about him.

“Whatcha talking about,” he said, tone a little too flat, so that it came out as more of a demand than a question.

Changbin shifted, tilting his head to one side a little bit as he looked at him. Jisung could tell from his face that he was weighing different options, trying to read him to see which answer would be best.

“You,” he said finally, and Jisung’s shoulders dropped in something like relief, because the only answer he’d really wanted was the fucking truth. At least they had the decency to give him that much.

“What about me?” he asked, even though he dreaded the answer. There wasn’t really much they could have been talking about aside from what had happened last night, and he was no more ready to willingly dredge up memories of Seojun than he’d been yesterday—which was to say, not at all.

Wordlessly, Chan held out his hand—the same one that Changbin had probably been holding just a second ago—palm up in the air, unassuming. Close enough that Jisung could reach out and take it without having to move from where he stood.

He did, and Chan’s fingers curled gently over his own, the brush of his skin enough to quell the voice in his head screaming at him to run away.

“We’re worried about you,” Changbin said bluntly, and leaned back onto his palms. If it weren’t for the way his teeth teased over his lower lip, Jisung would have misread the look in his eyes as pissed instead of concerned.

Chan squeezed his hand.

“You scared me last night,” he said quietly.

Jisung’s mind went blank for a second, because the idea of Chan— _Chan_ , who was all dimples and broad shoulders and calm reassurance—being afraid of _anything_ made him short circuit a bit. “Oh,” was all he said.

“You were practically catatonic, Jisung,” Chan continued. “It was like you couldn’t even hear what we were saying.”

Jisung was suddenly glad that he was looking at their hands instead of up at him because he didn’t know what he’d find in his eyes—didn’t know that he’d be able to handle what he might see there. He wasn’t sure what would be worse: pity, or sorrow?

Silence hung between them for a moment, while Jisung ducked his head further to avoid looking either of them in the eyes.

“I don’t think you’re ready to talk about it right now,” Changbin said, head tilted to one side, eyeing him intently for any reactions to his words. “Just from what I’ve noticed. We’re not asking for that. We’re asking for you to talk to us when you’re ready.”

“But,” his head was swimming with emotions and he was struggling to tie them down enough to assign words with them. “But, I don’t—it feels like I’ll never be. Ready, I mean.”

“If I’m being honest with you?” Chan asked, rubbing his thumb soothingly over Jisung’s palm. “If you’re looking for this to be comfortable, to be unafraid, to be able to put everything perfectly into words—you’re gonna be waiting forever. We’re not asking for that. We’re asking for you, when you think you’re as close to that as you’re gonna get, to embrace that bit of discomfort and to trust us to help you, because keeping it bottled up forever just means you’ll never be able to move past it.”

Jisung’s breath caught in his throat. He was gazing up at Jisung with such kindness and _understanding_ that he had to look away, screwing up his face with the effort of holding back tears.

He looked up only when Changbin reached out and whacked the back of Chan’s shoulder, muttering that it was his turn to use the shower. Chan gave him a look, but let go of his hand and left for the bathroom. Jisung let out an inaudible little breath of relief; the weight of the emotions in his gaze had been a little too much for him in that moment, something that he suspected Changbin had noticed.

“I’m going to check us out downstairs,” Changbin said quietly, brushing past him towards the door. He paused, just before leaving. “You should probably make sure you’ve grabbed everything from your room.”

In another situation, the words would have registered as a dismissal. In that moment, however, Jisung recognized it for what it was: a way out. The bedroom seemed far too small as it was, overflowing with the weight of the conversation they’d just had. And the thought of even thinking about that night enough to talk about it had dredged up little, itchy beginnings of panic within him, and he needed some time to come back into himself before he could deal with Changbin and Chan’s knowing expressions again.

He sent a silent ‘thank you’ Changbin’s way as he slipped out the door.

* * *

To Jisung’s credit, the drive to Sokcho was only marginally quieter than the drive to Uljin had been. Changbin was almost impressed at his ability to pretend that their conversation that morning had never happened. It wasn’t perfect, of course; Jisung laughed a little too loudly at times and let silences stretch on a little longer at others, but it was good enough for them to make do. Changbin sacrificed some of his pride to fill any gaps with embarrassing stories from his college days, and Chan made sure to laugh at all of Jisung’s horrible jokes.

So, even though they all had that morning’s conversation lingering in the back of their minds, they were content.

Sokcho was a much bigger city than Uljin had been, but the jo-poks’ presences weakened with every hour they drove from Busan, and Changbin wasn't as on edge as he’d been at their first stop. They were so far up north at this point that it wouldn’t make sense for the Busan jo-poks to be looking for them there. Plus, Sokcho’s tourist traffic meant that people were constantly flowing in and out of the city, which would help them to blend in.

Of course, that didn’t stop Chan from throwing a fit when Changbin suggested that he run to the nearest convenience store on his own, while Jisung watched them both in amusement.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking,” Chan seethed, jabbing a finger into Changbin’s chest. “We made a choice to deal with this together, all three of us, and that means you can’t just go gallivanting off alone with no one to back you up in case you get caught—”

If it had been anyone else speaking to him this way, Changbin would have probably decked them ages ago. But this was Chan, and Changbin had seen the way his jaw had tensed last night when they’d first left Jisung alone, the same way it had when Changbin had forced him to stay back while he answered the door. He knew that Chan got anxious any time either he or Jisung got too far, even if he did his best to hide it.

So Changbin caught Chan’s wrist, and laced their fingers together. Chan quieted instantly, though his mouth was still twisted with worry.

“I know that you’re concerned about me being somewhere you can’t protect me,” he said, forcing his voice into something gentler than it was used to being. “But think this through. We’re a thousand times safer here than we were in Uljin, but that doesn’t mean that we’re completely safe. If all three of us went, we’d be more likely to get noticed.”

“We can hide Jisung’s hair,” Chan argued, and Jisung paused in the corner, reaching a hand up slowly to touch his hair as if realizing it was there for the first time.

“I’m not just talking about hair, Chan,” Changbin said. “I’m really, really good at hiding my features—from people, security cameras, you name it. I’m the one of us who has the best shot at going unrecognized out there. And we only need a few things, so I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

He knew he’d gotten his way the second Chan’s shoulders slumped, ever-so-slightly.

“You’re coming _straight_ back,” Chan ordered, staring him down.

“I promise,” Changbin agreed.

He looked over at Jisung to check if he had any objections, and found his eyes locked on their intertwined hands. His heart skipped a beat, and he dropped Chan’s hand abruptly, brushing past him to grab his coat. Neither Jisung nor Chan commented on it as he left, but he knew they’d both noticed, and spent the entire walk to the store glaring at the pavement as if it should have solved his problems for him.

He and Chan had agreed to keep their…whatever it was, hidden from Jisung. Changbin knew that as soon as he allowed himself to be open with Chan, Jisung would realize that Changbin treated him and Chan the same way. He’d always proved to be stubbornly perceptive; he’d figure out what was going on far too quickly for Changbin’s liking.

Because Changbin didn’t quite know how to handle the idea of liking two people at once. And he didn’t want Jisung to even realize he did until he could even articulate it properly. “Like” seemed too juvenile and shallow, but “love” seemed too heavy a word to use right away.

Then again, they’d been dealing with a lot of heavy shit lately, the constant threat of death being one of them. What was one more thing, especially if it was something that Changbin just _knew_ would be wonderful if they just let it be?

That was the problem, really. He didn’t want Jisung to know, which was why he’d dropped Chan’s hand like it had been on fire.

But he also wanted what they could have, so badly that he felt the longing like a physical pain in his chest. The second he’d let go of Chan, instead of reaching out for Jisung as well, he’d hated himself for it.

It felt a little ridiculous to be contemplating all this while puttering around a convenience store picking out toothpaste of all things, but his whole life had been pretty ridiculous as of late. He’d been away from Chan and Jisung for all of ten minutes, and already missed them, so.

Like he said, ridiculous.

Still, even after he noticed himself speeding up on his way back to the hotel, he made no effort to slow back down. He told himself it was so that Chan wouldn’t have to worry for as long, and he even half believed himself when he did.

“Missed me?” he shouted out into their hotel room, by way of greeting.

Jisung scoffed from where he was lounging on the bed.

“No,” he said petulantly, but he got up and padded over towards him anyways, poking through the items in the grocery bag to investigate what he’d brought back.

Chan was a little more obvious, as he’d been sitting and staring at the door when Changbin had entered. He jerked up, as if wanting to walk over to him, before visibly forcing himself to settle down. He’d very clearly only barely restrained himself from reaching out to him, and Changbin stifled a smile. During his fit earlier, Chan’s overprotectiveness had been endearing if frustrating; now, watching him try so hard to play it cool, it was almost cute.

“What the fuck is this?” Jisung blurted, and they both turned towards him to find him holding some boxes aloft, staring at them accusingly.

“Hair dye,” Changbin offered, reaching out to take it from him. “Or do I need to remind you that we’re on the run here?”

Chan was making a face a little bit like he’d just sucked on a lemon, but he nodded.

“Most of the time, these guys are running on basic descriptions of us—height, weight, hair and eye color,” he explained. Changbin rocked back on his heels, happy to not be the one doing the convincing this time. “Changing our hair color, especially yours because it’s so distinctive, is a great way to throw them off.”

It was true. They were probably far from the only people the jo-poks were after, and the descriptions people had to go off of probably weren’t the most detailed. He couldn’t speak to the others with certainty, but he’d always been particularly careful about not taking any full-frontal photos where his face was clearly visible, just in case. They’d already been wearing sunglasses to cover their eyes, so it made sense to tackle the other physical feature that was most likely to give them away.

Jisung grimaced, but nodded. “I, uh, don’t really know how to dye hair though,” he said sheepishly.

Changbin blinked at him. _“You_ don’t?” he asked dumbly. He knew that Jisung had worked as a hairdresser for at least the past year, and since he’d never really dyed his hair himself, he’d been counting on one of the other two knowing how to do it for him. It didn’t help that both he and Chan would be needing to bleach their hair first, since black hair didn’t dye well. And he was not in the mood to add “fucked-up hair” or “chemically burnt scalp” to the list of problems he had to deal with right now.

Seemingly anticipating their disbelief, Jisung threw both hands up in front of him in a what-can-you-do gesture.

“Look, dudes, I only ever had to pretend to be a hairdresser,” he said. “It was literally a money laundering business, so I don’t know what you were expecting. I know how to shave a guy’s beard, that’s pretty much it.”

Changbin looked up towards the sky and said a mental prayer for his scalp.

Then Chan cleared his throat. “I actually know how this works,” he said, scratching the side of his neck self-consciously. “I…may or may not have dyed my hair in high school.”

“Holy shit, what color?” asked Changbin, too distracted by the thought of a younger, even shorter Chan with a shitty dye job to rejoice about his scalp being safe.

“It was green,” Chan said mournfully, looking like he wanted to be swallowed up right then and there.

Changbin threw his head back and _cackled._ He couldn’t decide which imaginary Chan he thought was funnier—one with mint hair, or neon fucking green—but it didn’t even matter because in either case the thought was enough to give him stitches.

Next to him, Jisung was also laughing uproariously, clutching his sides. “I—you—fucking _green_ —” he gasped, unable to form a coherent sentence.

Chan stood and snatched the box dye from Changbin’s hand. “Fuck off, both of you,” he hissed, stalking over towards the bathroom. His glare would’ve been impressive, if it hadn’t been fatally undermined by the bright scarlet of his ears.

Still giggling at the thought of a scrawny, baby-faced Chan looking like a green Skittle, Changbin followed him into the bathroom.

* * *

Jisung couldn’t remember the last time his hair had been black. He’d been dying it since high school, and it almost felt weird to look into the mirror and see his face framed by black bangs instead of blue or red or even orange that one time he’d dyed it on a dare. He’d liked the blue, and he wasn’t quite sure how to feel about it being black now. It was stupid, but it made him feel more ordinary in a way he didn’t exactly like—even though that was the entire point, to be ordinary, to _look_ ordinary.

He liked Chan’s hair, though. It looked _really_ good—so pale that it made him look like some sort of ghost, but hot. Jisung had, incidentally, happened to tell Chan that, word for word. (The embarrassment was worth the confused but shy smile Chan shot his way afterwards.)

But his hair was a little less soft, he realized, carding his fingers through the strands. He reached up to run a hand through his own hair, and then reached across Chan to feel Changbin’s from where he was laying on the other side of the bed.

“What’re you doing?” mumbled Changbin sleepily, swatting clumsily at his hand.

Jisung was too distracted by the outline of Changbin’s eyelashes against his cheekbones to filter his answer. “Chan’s hair is crunchy now but yours isn’t,” is what came out.

“What?” asked Chan, a hint of distress in his voice. He shifted in the bed, craning his head up to try to look up at him.

“He said your hair is crunchy,” Changbin supplied helpfully, and curled up tighter against Chan’s side.

Jisung frowned at him, and stroked the top of Chan’s head in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. “We can get conditioner tomorrow,” he reassured him. “And it still looks really good.”

“Chan can have a crisis of self-confidence tomorrow,” Changbin muttered, grumpy from tiredness. “I need some fuckin’ sleep.”

His hand stilled from where it had been brushing through Chan’s hair, and Jisung steeled himself mentally. He’d been stalling going to bed for as long as possible, even as Chan and Changbin got ready and got into bed, but it was maybe inevitable that he be expected to go back to his own room. Just because he’d been a baby about it last night didn’t mean that he’d be automatically invited in tonight. He was sure that he’d be accepted if he asked, but wasn’t quite sure how to voice the way every fiber of his being wanted him to stay here, curled up with the two of them. Wasn’t quite sure of how much it would affect how they saw him, how the three of them worked together, if he did.

“Have a good night,” he said, keeping his voice carefully light.

Changbin’s hand shot out to grab his arm as he made to stand. “Stay,” was all he said, suddenly more awake than he’d been for the past hour that they’d been laying there together.

Jisung suddenly had to swallow past a lump in his throat, because he could tell that Changbin knew he hadn’t wanted to sleep alone that night. Between the other two, Changbin was the one who always seemed able to call out the bits of himself he wasn’t even aware he’d let them see. He wasn’t asking Jisung to explain everything to them. He wasn’t asking for any answers, just then.

Then Chan shifted, looking over towards him, face kept carefully neutral but eyes expectant. He didn’t have to speak to echo Changbin’s sentiment. They were giving him the option of staying the night without having to ask, without expecting anything in return, and Jisung was melting back onto the bed before he could even think about what he was doing.

Words hadn’t been Jisung’s friend lately, and they still weren’t now. He lay there for a minute or two trying to put words to the overwhelming tide of gratitude welling up in him before he gave up. A mere “thank you” fell miles too short of what he actually wanted to say.

But there were other ways to communicate with them. When he wrapped an arm around Changbin’s waist, and reached out to take Chan’s hand, it meant the most heartfelt gratitude he could think of. When he tucked his nose against Changbin’s neck, and stroked his fingers along the soft skin peeking out from the hem of Chan’s shirt, it meant every bit of the love—the only thing he could think of that could explain the sheer sense of warmth and home that they brought him—that he had to offer.

And when Changbin let out a hum of contentment, and when Chan squeezed his hand back, he knew he was understood. And he knew he was loved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm gonna pretend that it hasn't been like three months since i last uploaded :) i know the wait's been a hot minute, but i've stretched myself pretty thin this semester and haven't had the time to write! it's been as much of a bummer for me as it has for you, if not more, i promise! but i'm super excited for winter break because i'll be done with all my classes and will have a shitton of time to write and get ahead on my update schedule! so starting in mid december-ish you can expect weekly updates to start up again for a while. hope you enjoyed this chapter, it's the longest one so far!


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEARS BITCHES!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new years bitches!!! bet you thought you'd seen the last of me this year, well you were wrong! and i know these are like the last minutes of 2019 but i still made it on time!!!

An hour outside of their last stop before Seoul, Changbin missed his second exit in twice as many minutes. Chan had to reach over and grab the wheel from him to force them to pull over, and it was only with Jisung’s help that he managed to coax Changbin into letting him drive instead.

“I know, I know, I know,” Changbin rambled, practically vibrating with anxiety from the backseat. “But you can feel it too, right? Like, we’re so _close.”_

Jisung hummed in agreement, and Chan glanced back just in time to see him place a hand on Changbin’s knee, quelling its nervous jiggling.

“We know,” Chan said, catching Changbin’s eye in the rearview mirror.

The car fell silent for a minute, each of them thinking through what it meant. Because it was true; Uijeongbu was less than an hour’s drive from Seoul. And Seoul was simultaneously their biggest test and their biggest unknown.

The jo-poks had been trailing them the whole way to Seoul, Chan was sure of it; it was exactly where they’d expected them to flee. They’d managed to throw them off so far, because Chan had planned their route to go out of its way to avoid the most direct path—and the biggest cities—from Busan to Seoul. And the possibility of freedom was so tantalizingly within their grasp that they could almost taste its brightness on their tongue.

Lee Felix lived in Seoul, and had been probably the closest thing to a co-worker and a friend that Chan could have, given the online and illegal nature of most of his money-making activities. They’d met, online in first, years before, when Chan was in Seoul for college. After an in-person meetup where Chan had been half convinced Felix would turn out to be a middle-aged man, they’d found out that they were close in age and had become friends after that. Chan had probably spent hours coding with him in various internet cafes, before Felix’s work had taken him in a different direction. They’d still stayed in touch every now and then, and their most recent phone call had been back when Chan had been at Woojin’s.

Felix’s work was in identity theft these days; when Chan had called him, he’d offered to forge passports for all three of them; so once they arrived in Seoul, they’d be mere hours away from flying out of the country under a set of fake names.

But once they were in the capital, they’d also be in the most danger they’d been since leaving Busan. Seoul was, especially given the amount of time that had passed, where the jo-poks would be concentrating their search efforts. Even though it wasn’t their center of power, the jo-poks also had more influence there than in the smaller, lesser-known cities Chan had been confining them to over the past several days.

So the thrill of making it out alive mixed with the dread of being caught so close to their success into a horrible, twisting sensation in Chan’s stomach. He wouldn’t show it, but his heart was no doubt racing just as fast as Changbin’s was, and he could already tell he wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink that night. Now, more than ever, his mind was racing with all of the little things that could go horribly wrong, with all of the ways that Changbin and Jisung could be taken from him and—

“Dibs on first shower,” he announced, forcing his mind back into the present moment.

Predictably, Jisung squawked indignantly, shooting forward in his seat to tug at Chan’s shoulder. “What do you mean,” he whined right in his ear, shaking him back and forth. “We’ve been on the road all day and I’m so gross and you want to be a big meanie and just _keep_ me from—”

“He said dibs, Ji,” Changbin said from the back, a wicked smile tugging at his lips.

The appearance of a new nickname was enough to tear all of Jisung’s attention away from Chan, and he reeled backwards to sputter at Changbin. Chan only raised an eyebrow before turning his eyes back to the road ahead.

By the time they reached Uijeongbu, it had started to get dark, and Jisung had forgotten about the shower issue in favor of pressing his nose to the window and staring, wide-eyed, at the city, the same way he did every time they arrived somewhere new.

Chan was more than a little exhausted at that point, and couldn’t quite find it in himself to muster up the same curiosity that Jisung seemed to be able to summon effortlessly. “I just want that shower and then a bed,” he lamented. “I wanted to be asleep half an hour ago.”

In the backseat, Changbin frowned slightly, and Chan winced internally as he remembered just whose decisions had made them late in arriving to Uijeongbu. There was no point in complaining about things that were the result of unintentional mistakes; all that did was hurt people’s feelings.

But before he could open his mouth to change the subject, Jisung spoke up.

“Don’t feel bad, Binnie-hyung,” he chirped, almost bowling Changbin over with the force of his shoulder bump. “All I’ve done is bumble around in the backseat this whole trip, and even if I had a license I’m pretty sure neither of you would trust me behind the wheel!”

Changbin’s furrowed brow smoothed out once more, and Chan breathed a little sigh of relief.

When they pulled up at the smallest, most nondescript hotel Chan could find online, Jisung volunteered Changbin to go and check them in. As he did so, he shot Chan a look that quelled any questions he might have had. It resembled a look his mom used to gave him, one she used when they were in public and she wanted to talk. Chan narrowed his eyes at Jisung, and decided that the resemblance was uncanny.

“So what was that about?” he asked, rounding on Jisung the second Changbin had strolled out of earshot.

Jisung grinned as he leaned forward, way too far into his personal space. Chan did his best not to look down at his mouth, and was 90% sure he’d succeeded.

“Binnie is extra grumpy today, because he’s antsy and feels bad for it,” he explained. “So once we get inside, let’s break out that deck of cards he was so exciting about swiping for us, and we’ll act surprised when he cheats so that he wins, mkay?”

“That sounds good,” Chan said, surprised that Jisung even remembered the offhanded remark Changbin had made about getting some playing cards ‘for the road.’

“Binnie wants to protect us, and thinks he has to be some perfect, superhuman hero to take care of us. So he tries to hide when he’s scared or upset. But that’s silly, because he’s human too, and he needs to stop beating himself up about that, right?”

Chan nodded dumbly, not quite sure whether or not they were still talking about Changbin.

“Great!” Jisung said, patting him on the cheek delightedly. “Now go park the car and then come join us, okay?”

Then he bounced out of the car after Changbin, plastering himself to the other’s back like a barnacle. Changbin, to his credit, didn’t even stagger under the added weight, and acted as if nothing had happened.

Chan blinked after him, feeling a little shell-shocked—as always, he felt that Jisung’s words had a double meaning to them. He’d been talking about Changbin’s need to put up a front, but Chan couldn’t help but feel Jisung was also scolding him for doing the same thing.

As he jogged up to the hotel to join them, Chan couldn’t help but smile wryly to himself. He and Changbin liked to think of themselves as wrangling Jisung most of the time, but sometimes, he suspected that Jisung might be the one wrangling the both of them.

* * *

“Straight flush,” Changbin grinned, laying out his cards.

“No fair,” Jisung whined, throwing his own cards down in frustration. He shot Chan a furtive look to make sure he wouldn’t complain about Changbin winning eight games in a row. They’d agreed to let Changbin cheat to his heart’s content, but Chan could also be prideful at times.

After meeting eyes, though, Chan sighed and also folded. “You’re gonna bankrupt me at this point,” he muttered, looking up with a smile. Behind him, the television had been turned down, and the hum of the newsman droned on behind him, so that he was backlit by its light, giving the tips of his hair a pale blueish sheen.

Jisung watched wordlessly as Changbin looked down and cleared his throat, gathering up all the change from the center of the bed. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he wouldn’t have noticed, but there was the faintest hint of a flush on Changbin’s cheekbones. He wondered if Chan knew to look for it, too, or if he was clueless about the effect he had on Changbin. Chan could be pretty clueless about these sorts of things. Clueless and obvious at the same time.

It would have been hard to miss the way Chan had reacted when Jisung had gotten all up in his face in the car earlier—the slight intake of breath, and the dilating of his pupils. He could have closed the distance between them, then. He knew Chan would’ve let him.

But he couldn’t.

There were a thousand reasons—Changbin wasn’t there, Chan was already involved with Changbin, the location was less than ideal—but mainly, it was because he wasn’t quite ready to have the conversation that would have to follow. Their relationship had already changed dramatically and deeply enough in the past several days, and he wasn’t sure how it would take one final upheaval, especially one as big as this.

“—your turn to shuffle,” Chan said, and Jisung looked up to see him offering the deck of cards. Next to him, Changbin was playing with the pennies and nickels he’d acquired.

_I love you,_ Jisung wanted to say. _Both of you._

“Sure,” he said instead, taking the cards. He did love Chan, and he did love Changbin. But it also scared the hell out of him to admit that to himself, and he couldn’t even imagine trying to tell them, as much as he wanted to.

Changbin was their designated dealer, and Jisung studiously looked away across the room as he dealt, just in case Changbin wasn’t as good of a cheater as he thought he was. He’d probably end up telling them at some point later tonight, and Jisung planned on acting as surprised and indignant as if he’d never known it had been happening. He was sure that, for Changbin, getting away with it and then telling them was the bulk of the fun. It had certainly succeeded in putting him into a better mood, which made Jisung only a little bit smug about how well he’d read him.

“Hang on,” Changbin said, and his tone was so unlike anything Jisung had ever heard that the hairs on the back of his neck pricked up uneasily. He reached around Jisung to grab the remote, and dialed the volume up. Next to him, Chan was craning his head to look at the TV, his eyes wide.

Some part of Jisung knew what it would be, even as he turned to look, feeling like he was moving through molasses—stuck in slow motion.

A photo of him stared blankly back at him from the screen, in all his blue-haired glory. He dimly recognized it as his employee ID photo, from back at the barbershop.

And a photo of Kim Seojun was plastered up on the screen next to him.

Jisung looked away almost immediately, feeling a little as if he were in some sort of dream. In his desperation to look anywhere but _there_ , his eyes found first Chan, and then Changbin. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t even breathe—all he could do was hold his breath, and look at them, and wait.

_“…several days ago, and is currently receiving treatment for severe hypovolemic shock at Busan St. Mary’s Hospital. The victim was identified as Kim Seojun, pictured on the right. At 38 years old, he is the youngest Board Member of Kim Holdings. Kim has identified his attacker as 22-year-old Han Jisung, an employee of one of Kim Holdings’ subsidiary businesses, pictured on the left. If you have seen this man or have any information about him, please refer to the number below. In other news—”_

Changbin was the one who turned the television off, his finger lingering over the button on the remote and his gaze remaining on the screen even after it became black. He hesitated, and then glanced over towards Chan, who was staring at his hands with his brows furrowed. Jisung didn’t have to be able to read minds to know that his was rethinking everything, trying to fit this newest variable into his plans.

He hoped that he and Changbin weren’t disappointed in him—he _knew_ that he should have told them long ago, first back when they’d gone around sharing their stories, and then that night when they’d pulled him into their bed after his nightmare and he’d realized he loved them. The first time because they deserved to know if they were putting their life on the line with his, and the second time because they deserved to know every little part of him.

And Jisung wanted. He wanted, so badly, to show them. He knew that it would be painful to peel back his skin and show them what had been cowering inside, but he had also never been more certain that they were the only people in the world who could see his true self hiding within his walls and love him. He could feel it, now, building up inside him—welling up until he was sure it would trickle from his ears and his eyes and spill from his lips if he didn’t just _speak._

Finally, Chan looked up at Changbin, and then over towards where Jisung sat, ready to burst. Changbin looked back and forth between him and Chan, silent.

Jisung waited.

“Jisungie,” Chan began gently, and the dam inside Jisung broke.

“I joined the Cheolgwon jo-pok young,” he said, and Chan shut his mouth so quickly it was almost funny, if anything in that moment could have been funny. “Like, out-of-high-school young, back in Malaysia. And when I came back they offered me a job at one of their shell companies, the barbershop, and Seojun would come by every few weeks to check up on how it was doing.”

Now that he’d started speaking, the words kept coming, one after another, and he didn’t think he could stop even if he tried. He was leaning forward, speaking so quickly he scarcely had time to breathe, his mind racing faster than he could spit out words.

“He’s part of their inner circle, like, _way_ high up, so I was always nice to him. But he got the—the wrong impression, I guess, because the night we all met he came to the shop as I was closing. He was really insistent, and kept flirting with me, and then he kept trying to go further and it didn’t matter to him that I was telling him to stop. He backed me up against the counter, and he—he kissed me, and since I work in a barbershop there are, like, tools all around, y’know, and—and he was gonna try to rape me, so I latched on to a straight razor behind me and I just—”

The memories of the slick slide of steel through flesh stole his breath from him, and he jerkily drew his fingers across his own throat, hoping they would get the idea.

“Were you trying to kill him?” Changbin asked. There was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity.

Next to him, Chan blanched. “Shut up! What do you mean?” he yelped, looking at Changbin incredulously. “Is this really the time?”

Jisung sat back on his hands, hoping it would take attention away from the fact that they were shaking. He wasn’t sure if what he was feeling was elation or horror or shock or a mixture of everything. He couldn’t quite believe that, after agonizing about that night so much, he’d just—barfed it all out, just like that. The whole thing had taken probably around a minute, tops.

Plus, he wasn’t exactly offended by Changbin’s question. Coming from Chan, maybe it would’ve been different—despite his crimes, Jisung wouldn’t be surprised if Chan had a strict moral code that involved doing as little harm as possible. But Changbin had showed up on that first night with a face covered in bruises and blood, and there was a look in his eyes that made Jisung wonder how many times Changbin had asked himself that same question.

“If you’d have asked me that night, I think I would’ve told you no,” he said, slowly.

“And now?” Changbin asked, as Chan looked between them, distressed.

Jisung stared him down, and he stared right back, looking completely disinterested save for the tension in his shoulders.

“Now, I wish I would’ve pressed down a little harder,” he said, feeling almost numb to the words as he said them. “I don’t like the idea of him walking around out in the world, knowing how I taste.”

A dark look passed over Changbin’s face, but he nodded and sat back, seeming appeased. “That tells me all I need to know,” he said simply.

Jisung didn’t doubt it. Changbin seemed like the kind of person to struggle less with the morality of what had happened that night; a reason that Jisung had been marginally less worried about his reaction to the story as compared to Chan’s. He figured that Changbin had his own story to tell, which was only confirmed by his interest in Jisung’s motivation, but since the other two had given him as much time as he’d needed, he could only repay them by doing the same. Whenever Changbin was ready to talk, he and Chan would be there for him. And Jisung knew, that no matter what Changbin had done, who he’d hurt or who he might’ve killed, that he’d still love him.

(No matter how much Chan might argue about ethics, Jisung knew that he would, too.)

Chan was still gaping at them both, looking back and forth before finally settling on Jisung. “I can’t personally say that I approve of—of killing anyone,” he said, choosing his words carefully. Beside him, Changbin scoffed, but shut up and looked away when he glanced over. “But that’s your decision to make, not mine. And I do appreciate you telling us, and trusting us. It’s much better that we know the police are out looking for you beforehand, so we don’t get caught off guard.”

He held out his hand, palm up, as he had done before, and Jisung took it, squeezing gently.

“I would’ve told you guys anyways,” Jisung blurted out, the last little thing he wanted them to know. He licked his lips, looking between them both. “Even if it weren’t for the report. Because I trust you guys.”

_I love you guys_ , he meant, and this time he felt it so strongly that if he didn’t know better he’d have thought he might have said it aloud by accident.

Changbin and Chan glanced at each other, a moment of unspoken communication passing between them. Then they turned back to him, and they were both smiling—Changbin proud, Chan tired but happy. Chan yanked forward, where he was holding Jisung’s hand, and he fell forward into their arms as if their bodies had been made to fit together.

_I love you_ , Jisung thought for the thousandth time, and vowed to tell them before it was too late.


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;)

Changbin woke up feeling like a thousand tiny bugs were scurrying around just underneath the uppermost layer his skin. They would be entering Seoul in a few hours, and all he wanted to do was crawl out of his skin and stop the all-encompassing, itchy anxiety thrumming through his veins. There were a million ways things could go wrong once they entered Seoul, and he was terrified that they couldn’t possibly anticipate all of them.

He was hardly the only one feeling nervous, though; they’d all been getting more and more antsy with every hour that passed. Jisung was still asleep on his left, curled into his side with his hand fisted in the fabric of his shirt, as if terrified to let him go. And, as he’d expected, Chan was already out of bed, bumbling around absentmindedly in the bathroom.

Changbin’s first instinct was to go to him, but the thought of Jisung waking up to an empty bed drove a little pang through his heart. So he carefully shook his shoulder until he stirred and blinked up at him blearily.

“Time to get up,” Changbin said softly, reaching out to card his fingers gently through his hair.

Jisung groaned in protest, but forced himself upright anyways, clutching the covers in his hands. Half of his hair stuck out from his head at an odd angle, and his pillow had pressed indents into his cheek. Changbin stood and padded over towards Chan before he could do something stupid like kiss him.

Chan had abandoned all pretenses of getting ready and was leaning over the sink, staring hard into the mirror. He didn’t look away, even when Changbin snaked his arms around his waist from behind and pressed his chin into his shoulder.

“Did you sleep at all last night?” Changbin murmured.

All he got in return was a head shake, confirming what he’d already suspected. Chan’s jaw was so tense that a vein was popping out just under his chin.

He wished he knew what to say. Jisung and Chan were always good at the whole ‘comforting’ thing, but Changbin always felt at a loss when he was the one who had to step up. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what was going on. He was plenty observant; he knew that Chan’s anxiety came mostly from his self-selected role as their leader and protector, which only added their burdens onto his shoulders. But he had no idea how to tell him that it was alright to let them share his worries. He knew he wasn’t well-suited to being soothing, and was all-too-aware of how gruff and stiff he came off whenever he tried to help. He was worried he’d just fumble his words and make things worse.

So he hesitated, and then pressed his lips to the junction of his neck and his shoulder. In the mornings, Jisung tended to be more dead than awake for the first few hours, which usually allowed for him and Chan to be a little more affectionate in the morning without getting caught. He hoped that remained true this morning despite the stress of being so close to Seoul.

“Does that mean I should drive today?” he asked quietly, stepping around him to grab a toothbrush.

Chan shrugged, finally moving back from the sink so that Changbin could have access. “Will you drive like you did yesterday?” he asked, and then immediately sighed.

There had been no heat in his words, but Changbin still jerked away as if he had burned him. “That’s—” he started, and then stopped, too hurt and confused to figure out what to say. He’d thought he’d apologized enough times, yesterday—

“That’s not fair of me, I know,” Chan said, placing a hesitant hand on the small of Changbin’s back. Changbin let himself be pulled closer, though he still glared at him. “Honestly, I think I’m more likely to miss an exit than you at this point. I mean, look at me.”

“Yeah, the bags under your eyes are really making your ghost impression come to life,” Changbin said sullenly, but he leaned into Chan’s side to let him know he’d forgiven him. And when Chan leaned down, lightning-fast, to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, he didn’t pull away.

Jisung joined them in the bathroom just as they moved apart, pushing right in between them to reach for the faucet. They shared a glance in the mirror, but he didn’t seem to have noticed anything, all of his attention focused on getting the hot water to work, so they remained silent.

Less than ten minutes later, the phone rang.

They all stilled, turning to look towards it where it rested on the nightstand. The only person who knew where they were staying was Felix, Chan’s friend who was supposedly going to get them out of the country. But they’d spoken to him the day before, for what was supposed to be the last time before they met up in Seoul. He didn’t want to be overly paranoid, but Changbin was pretty sure that a last-minute call from him didn’t spell out anything good.

And if it wasn’t him, well. That would be infinitely worse.

Chan was the first of them to break out of his stupor, reaching over to pick up the phone as if he were afraid it was going to bite him. He put the receiver to his ear and waited, silently, for the other person on the end of the line to speak.

As soon as they did, he made eye contact with them and gave a little nod, confirming that it was Felix.

Jisung, who’d been loudly complaining about the water pressure, shut up immediately, coming over to poke his head out from behind Changbin to watch. They’d spoken to Felix the day before, for what was supposed to be the last time before they met up in Seoul. A last-minute call didn’t spell out anything good for them.

Changbin’s fears were confirmed when Chan’s face began to contort with fury as Felix spoke on the other end of the line.

“What do you mean?” he bit out. “How long are we supposed to—”

He cut himself off as Felix began speaking again. Changbin stood there numbly, his blood cooling to ice in his veins. Something was wrong.

“Felix, you—” Chan all but yelled, and then snatched the receiver away from his ear. Over the line, a few pops rang out, loud enough for Changbin to hear.

Gunshots.

The line went dead, and Chan stood still for a long moment, staring blankly at the phone in his hand. Then he threw it onto the bed with a frustrated yell.

“What’s going on?” Jisung asked, voice rising.

Chan turned to look at him, hands balled into fists by his sides. “He got caught up in some trouble,” he ground out. “He might be able to get out of it by tonight, but he says our best bet’s tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

Silence fell across the room as they stared at each other, taking in the implication of his words.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

Changbin’s voice echoed all the more loudly in the quiet of the room, but his volume was the last thing he was concerned with.

They’d been prepared for all of this to end _today._ The plan had been to meet Felix before the morning was over, and fly out just a few hours later once they’d gotten the documents they needed. Changbin had been losing his shit for the past 24 hours, worrying about anything and everything. None of them had talked about what would happen…after. Changbin had been torn between fear that an after wouldn’t happen and fear that even if it did, the others might not want the same things he did. They hadn’t even talked about whether or not they’d stay together, for Christ’s sake, and he was almost scared to ask.

So Changbin was scared that things would go wrong, and terrified about what would happen if things went _right_. But at least he’d had the consolation, up until that point, that all of this would be over soon—one way or another.

To draw it out longer, when they’d been minutes away from getting into the car, was almost cruel.

“Look,” Chan said, voice already sharp. “You think any of us are happy about this?”

Changbin could have cared less. “But it’s _your_ guy who’s flaking on us the last minute!” he accused, because Chan had sworn up and down to them that this Felix guy was legit and would pull through for them. “I—we—trusted you to—”

“We’re all fucking upset,” Jisung snapped, elbowing between them. Trust him to try and play the mediator, but Changbin wasn’t in the mood. He was thrumming with energy, and had been all day. Calming down was the last thing he wanted to do. “But—”

“So, what? You don’t trust me anymore?” Chan said, deadly quiet. “Because Felix is being shot at and it’s somehow _my fault?”_

“That’s not what I’m fucking saying!” Changbin shouted around Jisung, throwing his hands up in frustration because he wasn’t quite sure exactly what he _was_ saying. “Stop projecting!

Chan pushed past Jisung to jab a finger up in his face. Changbin snarled at him.

_“Shut up!”_ Jisung yelled, shoving them apart with enough force that Changbin stumbled. He grit his teeth, seething. “Neither of you speak until you can be fucking _civil_ to each other! You’re acting like children!”

The rare sight of a truly angry Jisung was enough to get Changbin to stop yelling. “He _does_ treat us like children, though,” he said bitterly. “That’s what he always does—tries to make all the decisions without us because he thinks he can do everything right.”

“That’s bullshit,” Chan scoffed. “Right, Jisung?”

He caught sight of Jisung’s face, and he stepped back in shock.

“Tell me you’ve never felt that way,” Changbin goaded Jisung, knowing he couldn’t lie and deny it. Chan’s controlling tendencies were sure to grate at least a little bit on a personality as strong as Jisung’s. Even back at Woojin’s, when Jisung had insisted on staying up to talk with Woojin and Chan, Changbin knew he had felt left out. The fact that the entire trip—from the stops to the people like Woojin or Felix who were helping them along the way—was planned by Chan didn’t help matters, either.

“It’s true that I’ve been frustrated at times,” Jisung admitted, glaring at Changbin. “But—”

Chan turned his back on them before he could finish speaking. Changbin would’ve bet money it was because he didn’t want them to see him being upset, because apparently he was supposed to be above expressing emotions like a _real_ person. And that was the heart of what pissed Changbin off—not that it felt patronizing, but that it meant Chan took all of the responsibility and stress onto himself. He expected himself to make all of the right decisions and be this perfect human who never buckled under the pressure, unlike Jisung and Changbin.

It was bullshit.

“Chan, listen to me,” Jisung pleaded, reaching for his arm. Before he could touch him, Chan jerked away, stalking over to the door.

As it slammed shut, Jisung whirled around to face Changbin. He was angrier than he’d ever seen him.

“Sit, and shut up,” he hissed, pushing him back towards the bed. “I know it’s shitty to have to wait around, but this is _not_ Chan’s fault and you know it, and now is _so_ not the right time to bring up any issues we have with him.”

“The whole reason he’s this upset is because he keeps doing this, letting all of this build up without letting us share any of the burden,” Changbin insisted. “He needs to cut this shit out now, or he’ll jeopardize all of us.”

It was true, and Jisung knew it. At first, when they’d been rattled and scared and had just met each other, Chan’s ability to take control of everything with confidence and assurance had been comforting. But as time passed, it became clearer that it was taking a toll on him, to constantly worry about every little aspect of keeping them safe. He could barely even trust Changbin to pick a few things up from a convenience store, and he didn’t really trust Jisung with anything, which Changbin knew frustrated him. And since they all slept in the same bed, it was pretty easy to tell that Chan had been sleeping less and less with every passing day.

Jisung looked at him for a long moment, something hard and unreadable in his eyes. Then he sighed, running a hand over his face. For a second, he almost looked as tired as Chan.

“This isn’t how you treat people, Changbin,” he said. “Take some time to cool off. I’m gonna make sure Chan doesn’t do anything stupid, and when I get back, I expect you two to apologize to each other.”

He was already out the door before Changbin realized that the look on his face was disappointment.

* * *

By the time Jisung caught up to him, Chan had already made it outside. His pace, which had been just short of a full-out sprint, slowed as Jisung got nearer, until he had come to a stop a few yards in front of him. Though his back was turned, Jisung could see the tension lining every inch of his body. His shoulders were taut, and the veins in his arms bulged out from the strain of his clenched fists. The fluorescent parking lot lights stripped away all color from his skin, washing it the same pale color of his hair. He looked more dead than alive.

Jisung waited, silently, for him to speak.

“Are you going to tell me I should go apologize?” he finally asked, still not turning around. It wasn’t quite clear if it was because he didn’t want to see the look on Jisung’s face, or because he didn’t want Jisung to see the look on his.

“I mean, eventually,” Jisung shrugged, daring to take another step forward. Chan tensed more, and he stopped. “But right now I was actually gonna say we should take a walk.”

Chan turned around at that, one brow raised. “Really? But Changbin—”

At Changbin’s name, he faltered, and Jisung realized why he’d been hiding.

“Walk,” he ordered, grabbing Chan’s hand and pulling them out of the parking lot, along the cramped road running along the side of the hotel. As they moved in silence, Chan’s head now tilted up to stare at the sky, Jisung stared at his face, and what he saw there.

His expression held anger, there was no doubt about that. But it was warring with something else:

Bang Chan was hopelessly, irrevocably, in love with Seo Changbin. Jisung had known that, sure; but this was the first time he was _looking_ , and suddenly it was everywhere. His love showed in the sorrow in his eyes and in the regret etched into the lines in his brow. It showed in the faint hope of the curve of his mouth and in the frustrated tension along his throat. Chan was in love with Changbin, and it was dripping out of every one of his pores, pouring out from the tips of his fingers and his toes.

Because more than angry, he was _sorry_.

Jisung had a strong suspicion that it wasn’t even Changbin he was angry at.

“You’re sad,” he said, watching carefully for a reaction. “Why?”

Chan hesitated, and then narrowed his eyes. “What makes you think I’m sad?”

“I’m not blind,” Jisung scoffed, putting his hands on his hips. He was so blind to how obvious he was—how obvious both of them were—that it was almost irritating. “Do you want to tell me why you’re sad or do you want me to guess?”

“Go ahead, guess,” Chan said, and he could tell from the twitching of his fingers at his sides that his patience was waning.

“You love him,” Jisung blurted, in what was not his most eloquent moment, and everything but the two of them ceased to exist.

Chan stared at him with something akin to horror, looking for all the world as if the ground had just crumbled away beneath his feet and he was terrified to even breathe for fear of falling. Jisung sighed, and slowed to a stop so he wouldn’t get left behind.

“Okay, I know that I could’ve been a bit more delicate about that,” he admitted, “but it’s frustrating to see you two fighting when anyone could see how far gone you are for each other. Yeah, I know, and I’ve known for a while. I’m cool with it.”

_Do you love me, too?_ Went unsaid. Now wasn’t a good time, not when he had to somehow convince two idiots to kiss and make up so that their fight didn’t get them all killed.

“How did—” Chan asked breathlessly, before stopping. He tilted his head back, letting out a bitter little laugh. “Fuck. You’re right, though. Of course you are.”

From the way he was talking, he’d probably only just realized it himself. “Say it,” Jisung ordered. “You need to realize you care about him too much to be angry at him like this.”

Chan hesitated, and Jisung cocked his head expectantly.

He let out a big breath. “I love him,” he said, and then the corner of his mouth turned up in a lopsided smile. “Holy shit, I love him.”

_I love you_ , Jisung thought, and bit it back. He forced a smile, reaching out to playfully shove Chan’s shoulder.

“Told you, dipshit. And you’re all mopey because it hurts when you fight with someone you love.”

And it hurt when you saw the two people you loved fighting with each other. He couldn’t quite describe the sickening sense of panic that had welled up inside him when they’d started arguing, the roaring in his ears getting louder and louder the more they started to yell—

“Ahh, why are you always right, Sungie?” Chan whined, but he was smiling, probably still riding the high of breaking out the ‘L’ word for the first time.

Jisung grinned. It was hard not to, when Chan was looking at him like that, eyes crinkled and love beaming out from every facet of his body. He could even trick himself into hoping that some of that love was meant for him, too.

“Because I’m smarter than you, obviously,” he shot back. “You ready to head back? Say you’re sorry?”

Chan nodded, his face clouding with uncertainty once the idea of an apology was brought up. He was still a little tense, looking back in the direction of the hotel, so Jisung took a deep breath and plopped down on the grass. He patted the damp ground beside him.

“I’m gonna make him apologize to you, too, for the record,” he said cheerfully. “But let’s sit here awhile. No use in heading back until Binnie’s also calmed down a bit.”

Clearly relieved, Chan lowered himself to the ground beside him, immediately grimacing. “It’s wet as fuck,” he complained, settling in anyways.

Jisung leaned back on his hands, squinting up at the sky. “Know any constellations?”

* * *

The night air had stolen the feeling from the very tips of Chan’s fingers by the time he found himself walking back down the hotel hallway—towards Changbin—with Jisung trailing along next to him. He was nervous as hell, and didn’t have even the faintest idea of what he was going to say. But this was the kind of thing where he knew the words wouldn’t come to him until he was right there, with Changbin in front of him. He just had to get himself together enough to walk through their hotel room door and actually look him in the eye, and he knew everything would follow from there.

Jisung had been right when he’d said that he loved Changbin too much to stay angry at him. And sometime soon, they’d have to all have a talk about the fact that Jisung _knew_. Or, to be more specific, that Jisung knew Changbin and Chan loved each other, but not how they felt about him.

But that conversation would have to come later, after they were both able to talk to Changbin. Because though Chan might have had some more things to discuss with Changbin, he hadn’t been the only one harboring a secret. If Jisung was going to preach so much about them talking about their feelings, Chan was going to make sure he remembered to talk about his own.

He was ready to reconcile things with Changbin. At this point, he was far from angry at him. Though, truth be told, he was starting to suspect that he’d never been angry at _Changbin_ —just at himself.

It had felt awful when Changbin had yelled at him.

It had felt a thousand times worse when he’d yelled back.

But neither of those feelings even remotely compared to the way his heart dropped out of his body and onto the floor when he saw the door to their room hanging off of its hinges.

_“Bin!”_ he screamed, leaving Jisung behind completely to sprint into the room. He looked around wildly, Jisung darting around behind him to check in the bathroom while he bent to look desperately under the bed. With every second that passed, it felt like more of him was flying away—first his stomach, so that he felt he was about to be sick; then his lungs, so that he gasped for air like a dying man.

It became quickly, terrifyingly clear that Changbin wasn’t in the room, but before Chan could try to remember how to breathe, Jisung was grabbing at his arm with a grip so tight blood welled up along his wrist where his nails dug in. He followed him blindly as they tore through the hotel, not caring—for the first time in weeks—about staying hidden, or keeping quiet.

“Changbin!” Jisung was shouting, yanking them through the lobby and out the front doors, into the night. The sheer panic kept him from even registering the shock of the cold.

Wheezing, Chan whirled around, scouring the parking lot frantically. His eyes fell to the far corner of the parking lot, and his world slowed down into three seconds.

In the first, he registered a familiar set of board shoulders through a car window, and all the parts of his mind clamoring for _Changbin_ grew to a deafening pitch.

In the second, he realized with a sickening lurch that Changbin was completely limp, his head lolling to the side.

In the third, he locked eyes with the man in the driver’s seat, and his mind ground to a horrified halt.

He ran forward without thinking.

“Shit!” Jisung cried out, and Chan could feel his hands scrabbling as he tried to grab him, keep him from running to Changbin. But Chan couldn’t stop himself from moving the same way he couldn’t stop his heart from beating, every nerve ending on fire with the _need_ to get to the fucking car—

“Let me go!” Chan yelled, straining against Jisung’s grip, tugging them across the lot even though he knew it was futile.

“It’s him, it’s him!” Jisung screamed, stomping down on his instep to send him crashing to his knees on the pavement. “You’re dead if you try!”

He was not talking about Changbin.

Jisung was right, and for once Chan wished to God that he wasn’t. He was distantly aware of wetness tracking its way down his cheeks, of the horrible hacking sound of Jisung’s sobs in his ears. His limbs had gone limp, and his face was slack; all of that was like interference. All his wide eyes could focus on was the driver.

With a screech of protest from its tires, the car tore off into the night.

The last thing Chan saw, before it pulled out of view completely, was the ghost of a smile washing over Shin’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me right now: https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/000/000/130/disaster-girl.jpg


	12. Chapter Twelve

Right after Shin drove away with one half of Chan’s heart trapped in the backseat of his car, it was all Chan could do to keep breathing.

He had no idea how Jisung got them both inside, but he was dimly aware of hands guiding him to sit down on the bed. The only thing he could do was sit there, slumped like a broken doll, and stare numbly at nothing in particular.

The look on Changbin’s face the last time he’d seen it, just before he’d stormed out, was burned into the back of his brain. He’d always been taught that anger was a secondary emotion. Changbin’s face had been lined with anger, but looking back he realized that it had been masking sorrow and, above all, fear. Changbin had been scared, for himself and for them, and Chan had walked out on him.

And now Changbin was gone, and there was nothing in his absence except for this deep awful _emptiness_ that seemed dead-set on sucking the will to live right out of him. Chan didn’t— _couldn’t_ —handle it.

“Ugh!” Jisung shouted from over by the door, and Chan snapped out of his thoughts with a start, looking over to where Jisung was sitting with his head in his hands. He scrunched his hands up, messing up his hair, and took a deep breath in. When he let it out, he stood up and stormed over towards Chan, eyes fiery. Chan watched him blankly and didn’t bother to fight back when Jisung grabbed a fistful of his shirt and shook him, hard.

“Get! Your! Shit! Together!” Jisung hissed at him through his teeth, and then abruptly let him go, running a hand restlessly through his hair. Chan knew he was talking to him, but had a nagging suspicion that he was maybe addressing himself as well. He pointed an accusing finger at him. “We’re getting him back, but I need answers. Now.”

Now wasn’t exactly the time for this, but the sight of Jisung, furious in his fear and homed in on bringing Changbin back to them—it was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful things Chan had ever seen. His tone brokered no argument and left no room for doubts. Chan knew, instantly, that he would follow Jisung like this to the end of this world and into the next.

“What do you need to know?” Chan asked, voice rough.

“You’ve been hiding things from me.” Jisung huffed out a breath, and started pacing, too full of pent-up energy to stay still. “About Shin. About how he knows you. So spill.”

This was honestly a long time coming. Chan had told Jisung enough for him to know that if he ever saw Shin’s face he needed to run, or hide, or both; but he hadn’t told Jisung why. He’d hoped that trust would carry them through this. But he was starting to realize that Jisung needed Chan to trust him more than the other way around.

So he sat up straighter, and forced the foggy panic overwhelming his brain to the side. For Jisung. For Changbin.

He detailed everything he knew about Shin, starting from the moment when he’d come back home to an open apartment door. How he’d caught Shin leaving Chan’s apartment with a gun in his hand. How Shin had a reputation as one of the Beongjae jo-pok’s cruelest killers—as the hitman they sent for when they wanted to kill as a message, instead of killing simply to kill.

Jisung stared at him, expression unwavering and eyes fierce, while he spoke. Then he sat down for a second, getting a faraway look on his face that meant he was thinking something over. When he spoke, he chose his words carefully.

“Things between Changbin and the Beongjae jo-pok are personal. He skimmed, and defected, which are two of the worst things he could’ve done to them. They have beef with you, but it’s not quite the same. I think they took Changbin because they need him. If they draw you out, it’s a bonus.”

Chan frowned. He trusted Jisung’s ability to figure out people’s motives—his short time with him had proved that Jisung was a whole lot better at the whole ‘picking people apart’ thing than he was. But while Chan prided himself on being good at understanding the needs of those close to him, he wasn’t as good at extrapolating information about people he’d never met, the way Jisung was. So he wasn’t really sure where Jisung was going with this.

“I don’t think they’re coming back for us,” Jisung concluded. “I think their goal was Changbin and they’ve got him. So we just need to get him back and get him out.”

In reality, Chan knew this would be a great deal harder than Jisung had just made it sound. But in that moment, hearing him say it so confidently made him feel like they maybe had a chance. Like if they were smart about it, they might actually be able to find Changbin, alive, before it was too late.

Jisung nodded, almost to himself, and shot to his feet. “I need to make a call,” he said.

Half an hour later, Jisung hung up with a mirthless but triumphant smile on his face.

Lee Minho was a member of the Cheolgwon jo-pok, one who was still trusted, and who was apparently still cool with Jisung. Chan wasn’t quite sure how they knew each other—if their friendship trumped even gang ties, or if Lee Minho simply wasn’t one to stay loyal to a gang—but he had helped them get one step closer to finding Changbin. And for that, Chan was so grateful that, if Minho had asked in that moment, he was pretty sure he’d have agreed hand-write him thank-you cards every day for the rest of his life.

Apparently, Jisung explained to him, the Cheolgwon jo-pok kept close tabs on their rival. It wasn’t unheard of for them to track any suspicious movements of notorious members; given Shin’s reputation within the Beongjae jo-pok, Jisung had guessed that him leaving Busan to follow them might have attracted attention.

Minho was apparently a bit higher-up in the Cheolgwon jo-pok than Jisung had been, enough so to be trusted with information about individuals of interested in the Beongjae jo-pok. It had been easy enough on his end to search for the one hitman going by the name of “Shin” within the Cheolgwon jo-pok’s database. Easy enough for him to rattle off an address and to tell them that it Shin had been seen entering a warehouse twenty minutes outside of Seoul just an hour prior to their phone call.

Chan’s entire body was thrumming with energy as Jisung said his goodbyes and hung up. He kept repeating the address over and over in his head, as if chanting it enough times could speak Changbin into existence in front of them. They knew where he was. There were still a million things that could go wrong, but now they _knew_ where he was, and Chan was sure that there was nothing in this world that could keep them from him.

Jisung took Chan’s hand, and looked him in the eye. “We need a way to get in and out, and we can’t do that just the two of us like this. We’ll need weapons. I need you to help me with this part, do you understand?”

Chan seized on to the opportunity to be helpful like he was a drowning man and it was a lifeline. He nodded fervently and jumped up.

“Felix will know a guy, he has to,” he said, scrambling to dial the phone even as his heart clenched at the prospect of violence.

Anything for Changbin.

_Anything._

And so, an hour later, by Felix’s direction, they found themselves driving towards Seoul. Towards a man named Kim Seungmin. And towards his guns.

Chan’s fingers flexed around the steering wheel anxiously. Even before, the idea of finally entering Seoul had sent jitters up his spine. Now, with Changbin gone, knowing what they were about to face—what they were about to do—he wanted to laugh at his past self for being so worried. The fear of one of them being taken was _nothing_ compared to the agony of one of them being gone, and of what he and Jisung might have to do in order to get him back.

Jisung rode silently next to him in the passenger seat, his spine rigid and his jaw set. The atmosphere in the car wasn’t necessarily awkward, but it was tense and quiet in a way it had never been before. No music played through the radio, no one sang off-key to any old pop hits. No one was shouting song recommendations from the backseat.

Neither of them seemed to quite know what to do with themselves when they were two instead of three. With Changbin gone—momentarily, he had to believe it was only momentarily—from the equation, Chan felt like he and Jisung had been removed with him. Like they were one amorphous soul instead of three, where you couldn’t take one and leave the others behind.

Three minus one equals two lost souls who don’t know how to act around one another, who can’t think beyond _bring him back bring him back bring him back._

Three minus one equals zero.

“I think we’re close?” Jisung said, craning his head to try and see around the corner.

The arms trafficking ring that Kim Seungmin owned operated mostly in the heart of Seoul. They had a remote location only a few minutes’ drive inside the city’s borders, and it was there that Felix had directed them.

Chan steered the car left around the bend, and a nondescript house slowly came into view. A man who must have been Kim Seungmin was waiting outside for them as they pulled up, and—

“Are you sure?” Jisung asked skeptically. It was the first time that he’d spoken since they’d left the hotel.

Chan narrowed his eyes, equally taken aback, but eventually he nodded. He knew he hadn’t gotten the address wrong, even if the man waiting for them with his head cocked to one side looked more like an elementary school teacher than an arms trafficker.

“He looks like a puppy,” Jisung continued, his tone still dubious. He shut up when Chan opened the door to get out, and followed suit, but gave him the side-eye the entire time.

“Felix told me you were expecting us,” Chan said evenly, as he shut the door. He’d never exactly bought illegal firearms before, and was trying to act like he didn’t feel completely and utterly out of his depth.

“Yeah, I love Felix!” Seungmin nodded, but then the bright smile wiped off his face so abruptly it gave Chan whiplash. “Though I don’t love _or_ know you, so I hope you understand that I’m treating you like any other low-tier customer. No discounts, no coming inside. You tell me what you’re looking for, I bring you what best fits your needs, we settle the price then and there. You got cash?”

Struggling to keep up with his rapid-fire speech, Chan nodded, hoping that the cash he’d left in the trunk of the car was enough.

“Great, so tell me the deets,” Seungmin said, snapping his fingers. “Felix tells me this is time-sensitive.”

Chan’s experience with guns began and ended at a shooting range with a simple handgun—an experience that he’d deemed uncomfortable but necessary at the time and thanked a God he didn’t believe in for now that Changbin was gone—so he looked to Jisung helplessly.

“We’re aiming for close-range, as quiet as possible,” Jisung rattled off, without so much as blinking. “Though we don’t know the full situation, so it’d be nice to have one longer-range gun in case we can’t get everything done up-close, in which case noise doesn’t really matter.”

Chan blinked at him, not necessarily disagreeing—he certainly had no expertise to offer—but he was surprised that Jisung seemed to have come up with a plan already. Minho hadn’t been able to tell them if there were other men inside the warehouse or not. They didn’t know what sort of situation they’d be diving into. And they hadn’t even talked it over yet.

Seungmin hummed, and disappeared inside, calling, “I’ll be back!” over his shoulder as he left.

“What was that?” Chan asked Jisung quietly, doing his best to keep his tone light instead of confrontational.

Jisung gave him a soft smile. “I know you’re used to being the one to make the decisions, but I figured you’d be more comfortable if finding ways to hurt the people who took Binnie was my job and not yours.”

“I can’t argue with you there,” Chan said honestly, “but we could’ve talked this over before you told Seungmin. What if I could’ve added something?”

Jisung blinked at him but just waited silently. He had that same look in his eyes that he had whenever he’d noticed something and was waiting for Changbin or Chan to catch on. Typically, it meant that Chan needed to wrack his brain or risk being teased for being dense later on. It took Chan a second to realize, but when he did, he rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Point taken, I promise we’ll only make joint decisions going forward,” he conceded. “But can we please communicate for the rest of this? And going forward indefinitely?”

“Of course,” Jisung said.

When Jisung smiled at him brilliantly, Chan felt like he was maybe starting to do something right.

* * *

Their talk had only been over for a few seconds when Seungmin popped back out from the run-down house that Jisung would never in a million years have suspected of harboring illegal firearms. He had a rifle slung across his back, and was carrying a box in front of him that he offered to Jisung to inspect. Looking inside, he found two handguns—poor range, but they would suffice for what they needed, and would be fairly quiet with the silencers Seungmin had included—and a silencer for the rifle, along with more than enough ammunition for all three.

He really wasn’t planning on them having to use the rifle, but figured it would be good to have a long-range option just in case they snuck into the warehouse and realized they were outnumbered. At that point, if they were trapped inside the warehouse, stealth probably wouldn’t be as much of an advantage, anyways, so the fact that it was louder than the handguns wasn’t as much of an issue.

Jisung was silently a little impressed. Seungmin had been awfully quick to bring these out. Either he really knew his stuff, or the house was hiding an impressive array of firearms. Potentially both.

“How much?” Jisung asked, looking up at Seungmin with a raised eyebrow. “For everything—guns, silencers, and ammo?”

Seungmin told them, and Chan sucked in a breath, wordlessly moving to the trunk. Jisung watched him curiously, wondering what his reaction had been for. It was a steep price, but nothing they didn’t have the money for. He quickly schooled himself. Now, in front of Seungmin, was not the time to ask. Now, while Changbin was missing, was not the time to ask.

Later.

Once they had Changbin back.

* * *

The sun was beginning to peek out over the horizon by the time the warehouse came into view, which meant that they had to act fast, because they wouldn’t have the cover of darkness for much longer. They didn’t even need to speak to communicate at this point; it was instinct for Jisung to hop out and grab the guns from the back while Chan locked up the car, as if they’d been working together for years. It had been a long ass time since Jisung had last held a gun. He couldn’t say he liked the weight of it in his hand, but the sound when he cocked it and screwed the silencer on fit nicely with the voice in his mind that wouldn’t stop chanting Changbin’s name.

Chan obviously knew his way around a gun—Jisung didn’t know how, and now wasn’t the time to ask—but he was clearly a great deal more apprehensive of it than Jisung was. When Jisung handed him his gun, he took it gingerly, and gave it a look as if it had killed his father in a fight to the death years ago. But when he looked up at the warehouse, where Changbin was trapped, his gaze hardened enough that Jisung knew he’d be able to do what needed to be done.

Minho had told them there were four guards who moved in pairs, completing one circle around the building’s perimeter every three minutes. The partnering made it unfortunately impossible to slowly pick them off one by one, but their plan was for them to each take one of the pairs down as quietly as possible. Chan would get into position around the northeastern corner, while Jisung would take the southwestern corner. They’d take out the guards, hopefully simultaneously, and meet up from there to try to infiltrate the warehouse through a back door on the northern side.

Before they split up, Chan rested a hand on Jisung’s shoulder, and hesitated. Uncertainty clouded his face, but he pushed forward. “Before we go, I want to tell you something,” he said, and Jisung knew exactly what he was going to try to convey before he could get any more words out.

“Shut up,” he said lightly, relishing in the look of shock on Chan’s face. “That’s the sort of thing we’ll want Binnie to be here for, right? So tell me later, once we have him back.”

The furrow in Chan’s brow smoothed out slightly at his words, and he let out a soft laugh, sounding almost incredulous.

“Sure,” he smiled, and squeezed Jisung’s shoulder. “Stay safe, and we’ll talk once this is over.”

Because they _would_ make it through this, and there _would_ be an after for them. Jisung couldn’t handle any less.

With one last, short goodbye, they parted ways.

Jisung found himself crouched uncomfortably right around his corner, his side pressed uncomfortably into the concrete wall of the building in order to remain as unnoticeable as possible. He checked the time on his watch, and let out a breath. Sixteen seconds left before he was set to intercept the guards.

Ten seconds.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

His training with the Cheolgwon jo-pok paid off, and his finger moved on the trigger before his conscious mind could even register the two men who had rounded the corner. They’d agreed on non-fatal wounds; Chan’s request, but one that Jisung had no issue following for now. They knew nothing about the guards they needed to take out, nothing that would warrant their deaths. And so Jisung’s bullets hit home in the guards’ kneecaps, and they both crumpled to the floor with a small cry of pain.

He winced at the noise they made when they fell, and quickly stepped forward, needing to knock them out while they were still dazed and hadn’t yet remembered to raise the alarm. The butt of the gun made an awful thudding noise when he hit the first man over the head, and the force of the impact reverberated up through his arms uncomfortably with the second.

Jisung took a second to step back, panting, and looked down at the men before him. His heart was racing, but his grip on the gun was eerily steady.

He’d never shot a man before. Now he had shot two.

_For Changbin._

Giving himself a little shake, he jogged around the building to try and find Chan, keeping his footsteps as light as possible and crouching low just in case. Less than a minute later, he came up behind him as he looked over the unmoving bodies of the two guards he’d been set to take out.

“Channie,” Jisung whispered, so as not frighten him when he touched his shoulder. When Chan whipped around, he saw that most of the blood had drained from his face, but the set of his jaw was determined. “You good?”

“I will be once we have Binnie back,” Chan said, swallowing hard.

“Yeah, we both will,” Jisung breathed, and tugged on his arm to pull him forward, towards the spot where Minho had said they could find a back entrance.

This part was the big unknown, and so he paused before before trying to push the door open. Minho had only been able to access recent intel about who was in the warehouse; they knew Shin and Changbin were in there, but had no idea if anyone else was also there. They were, essentially, going in blind and hoping that they’d be able to take out anyone and everyone quickly enough to grab Changbin and run.

He took a breath. Let it out. Felt the same eerie calm from before take over him.

Then he pushed open the door, one hand on the hinges to ease it open soundlessly.

* * *

The only reason Chan wasn’t freaking out about the fact that he had just _shot two people_ was because he knew that, somewhere up ahead in the warehouse, Changbin and Shin were waiting for him. He tightened his sweaty grip on his gun, the first gun he’d ever used outside of a range, and crept forwards after Jisung.

Jisung, who had seemed almost entirely unbothered by the prospect of shooting the guards. Chan knew it was necessary, because they needed to get to Changbin as quickly as possible and didn’t have time to get supplies or come up with a better plan. So he was willing to put up with it now, and would let himself panic over the ethics of it all later, when his veins weren’t thrumming with adrenaline.

But he couldn’t help but remember back when Changbin had asked Jisung if he’d meant to kill Seojun, that day in the barbershop. And he couldn’t help but remember the look on Jisung’s face when he’d sat back on his hands and said he wished he’d pressed the blade down harder.

A tap on his shoulder jolted him out of his uneasy thoughts, and he followed Jisung’s pointing finger over to—

To Changbin, tied up and worryingly bloodied and looking vaguely like he’d been run over by a car but _breathing_ and _alive_. Chan knew instantly that he would do _anything_ to make sure he stayed that way.

Every bone in his body was aching to go to him, to smooth the hair back from his face and check his wounds, but he knew that neither him nor Jisung could safely move out of hiding until they knew where Shin was. He could hear his voice, echoing off of the barren concrete walls. He knew he was up ahead, between them and Changbin.

Just a few seconds later, Shin stepped out from behind a pile of crates. His back was turned towards them, and Chan and Jisung exchanged a look, silently debating how much they were willing to bet that there were no more unseen henchmen inside the warehouse.

“I won’t ask you many more times,” Shin said, leaning down near Changbin’s face.

“Told you,” Changbin spat out, the words slightly slurred but filled with hatred, and Chan’s heart clenched. “’S practically gone by now.”

Shin grabbed a fistful of his hair, and Chan had to place a hand on Jisung’s arm to stop him from starting forward right then and there. “I hope you don’t expect me to believe you _spent_ it,” he hissed.

Changbin laughed. “I’m not a dumbass. I’ve been depositing a little here, a little there, this whole time. A little bit each time, many many times along the way. Good luck tryna track down every little account I piled it into, you motherfucker.”

Seething, Shin took a step back, studying Changbin silently.

Chan stood there dumbly. The rapid decrease in the pile of cash in the car trunk wasn’t something that Chan had exactly been able to hide, but he’d tried to be the one to handle the money as much as possible to avoid either Jisung or Changbin catching on. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust them enough to tell them, but that he knew he was risking himself every time he bribed a tired teenager at a gas station to help him stow some cash away in one of his pre-existing accounts. He hadn’t wanted to risk them like that—had known that they would’ve insisted on helping out if they’d been told. Jisung was good at reading people, so Chan wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d been the one to find out. But Changbin having known this whole time really threw him for a loop.

Next to him, Jisung looked over, and one glance at Chan’s expression seemed to tell him everything he needed to know. It looked like a puzzle piece was slotting into place in his head—and just like Chan had suspected, of course he’d noticed something was up as well—and the lines of his mouth hardened. But then he gave Chan a single short, sharp nod.

Chan exhaled tension in his shoulders he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying. They were alright, for now. This could be dealt with later.

He kept trying to remind himself that they’d make it to ‘later.’

Ahead of them, there was a sickening crack; Chan froze and looked up just in time to catch sight of Shin, raging over something Changbin had said, shoving Changbin’s head back so that his skull cracked against the concrete. Changbin’s eyes screwed shut in pain at the impact, and a thin trail of blood trickled down from his hairline.

Jisung shifted next to him, maybe trying to raise his gun, but Chan’s was already out in front of him. Without even realizing it, he’d drawn it up, and was holding it aimed square at the back of Shin’s head. One shot was all it would take, and Shin would be down.

This would all be over, and they could get Changbin back.

Chan adjusted his grip on the gun, and took a shaky breath.

One shot.

He exhaled, and closed his finger on the trigger.

The shot rang out, echoing across the cement walls of the warehouse, and missed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it's been like eighty million years, and thank you all for your patience with my long periods in between updates! i overextended myself a bit at university this year and was really feeling it. and recently my university kicked all of us out of the dorms, which was super stressful and meant i had no time for this fic. :( but one upside of being back home for the rest of the school year and practicing good ~social distancing~ is that i have more time to write!
> 
> this feels completely unreal to announce, but it's 100% true: this is the second-to-last chapter of this fic. i wrote this chapter today because i'm having an inspiration surge, and plan on writing the second chapter (which is already thoroughly outlined) tomorrow and editing throughout the week. so please tune in exactly one week from today to find out how this shit goes down! i'm so excited to see what you think of how i'm wrapping things up. :)


	13. Chapter Thirteen

The bullet whizzed past Shin, narrowly missing his shoulder, and ricocheted harmlessly off of the far wall. Chan could dimly hear Jisung cursing next to him, shouting something, but for a second all he could do was stare in horror, his gun falling from limp fingers, as Shin whirled around, reaching for his belt to grab his gun—

Jisung fired before he could even finish turning around, and Shin dropped the gun with a shout, blood gushing from his now-mangled hand.

“GET THE GUN!” Jisung screamed at him, readying to fire again. Shin was already moving, diving for the fallen gun.

Chan’s feet moved before his brain could even tell him to, and he sprinted across the warehouse floor, legs pumping as quickly as he could physically manage. His heart was in his throat, his eyes homed in on the gun resting a few meters away from where Changbin was tied up. But Shin was closer, and they made eye contact for a brief second before Chan realized he wasn’t going to make it in time.

He didn’t have time to think. Shin’s fingers closed around the gun, and Chan sped up, bending low and using his momentum to tackle him bodily to the floor. The impact winded Shin, who let out all of his breath in a wheeze, losing his grip on the gun.

It clattered across the floor, and Chan threw himself blindly after it, straining his arm to reach out. His fingers missed, and his heart stopped beating, but he scrambled forward along the floor and grabbed it.

He heard Jisung fire again, and Changbin let out yell of warning. Before he could try to turn and see what was going on, a heavy blow to the back of his head forced him back to the floor. His teeth clacked together against his tongue, and a rush of blood filled his mouth as he twisted around blindly, trying to cradle the gun to his side to keep it away from Shin.

Shin grabbed a fistful of his hair and tried to smash his face into the ground. Chan only barely got an arm between himself and the concrete in time, and before he could even recover, he felt nails dig into the hand holding the gun.

He looked up in time to see Shin standing over him, teeth bared in a grimace, and then Shin slammed his hand into the floor. Chan felt more than heard something in his hand break between the metal of the gun and the concrete, and screamed, his fingers loosening against his will, and Shin wrested the gun away from him, swinging it up, and _not Jisung_ —

Only Shin wasn’t aiming towards Jisung, he was twisting around, a savage gleam in his eyes, and Chan realized with horror he was turning towards Changbin. Changbin, who was tied in place, shouting at them with wide, frantic eyes, terrified not for himself but for them.

 _“NO!”_ Jisung screamed, voice breaking.

Chan lunged forward, mind too panicked to think.

Shin fired just as Chan crashed into his side. The shot went wide, but Changbin let out a cry, and a new type of terror filled Chan’s heart, one that he’d never felt before, because Changbin had been _hit_. He looked back at Shin, who was on the ground again, who had _shot Changbin_ , and the gun was in his hand before he could even realize what he was doing.

He fired, once, clean through Shin’s knee.

Shin’s back arched, and he let out a scream of pain and anger. He started to move, trying to sit up, or stand, or something.

He fired again, through the other knee. His hand was shaking, but it was with _fury_ , with white-hot anger at the man who had hunted them, who had taken Changbin away from him, and who would have killed him if given the chance.

“Stay. Down.” He only barely managed to grit the words out, so beside himself he almost couldn’t speak.

“Chan,” came from behind him, and it was Changbin’s voice, and he whirled around instantly. His face slackened in horror.

Changbin’s side was stained red, and his eyes were bright with pain. Behind him, Jisung was working to untie him. Tears were silently streaming down his face, but he was determined, whispering mindless platitudes into Changbin’s ears. Chan loved them so much he could barely breathe.

“Hey, Binnie,” he soothed, falling to his knees in front of him. He used one hand to cup his face, and the other to press down over the wound as hard as he can. Changbin let out a thin, high noise, and he pressed their foreheads together, whispering a thousand apologies. “You’re going to be okay, we’ve got you,” he choked out, praying that his words were true.

Jisung finished untying him, and together they stood Changbin up. His head lolled worryingly to the side, and they exchanged a look. Chan knew that Felix would know someone who could help, but they needed to get Changbin to his apartment as quickly as possible.

A groan came from beside them, and he realized in a panic that he’d forgotten about Shin.

Shin was still on the floor, trying and failing to get to his feet. Blood was pooled around him from all three of his wounds, but his face was still set with determination and hatred.

An odd sense of calm fell over Chan, and he shifted more of Changbin’s weight over to Jisung, bending down to pick up Shin’s gun.

Jisung’s eyes widened when he aimed it at Shin’s forehead, and his free hand closed around Chan’s.

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “Take Changbin, I’ve got this.”

“No,” Chan said, even though his grip was wavering on the gun. He didn’t—couldn’t really put into words the sickening dread of what he had to do. But he knew that if they let Shin live he would take it personally, and he couldn’t live his life feeling hunted, always wondering if Shin was after them. He’d never hated someone the way he hated Shin in that moment.

And yet.

“When you were calling Felix,” Jisung said, his voice so calm it raised the hairs on the back of Chan’s neck, “I turned on the news. Seojun’s dead, Chan. He died yesterday.”

Chan’s heart shattered.

“You’re lying,” he said stubbornly, his vision blurring with tears.

Jisung was bright, and beautiful, and he always had too much energy to be contained in his body, was always tapping or fidgeting or bouncing his leg. His hair had a mind of its own whenever he got out of bed in the morning, and his smile could probably cure world hunger, and when he looked at Chan, he felt loved and seen in a way he hadn’t known until Jisung and Changbin had crashed into his life. He was loud and stubborn but always, always got his way.

He wasn’t a killer.

“He’s dead, Chan,” Jisung said softly.

“I’m so sorry,” Chan said, voice breaking. He had never wanted this for Jisung, had never wanted him to live with the weight of another man’s blood on his hands. “I should’ve been there, I should’ve protected you—”

“You weren’t in my life, yet. It’s not your fault,” Jisung said simply. No hint of blame, no remorse, even as Chan broke down in front of him. He plucked the gun gently out from Chan’s limp fingers. “I won’t regret this, but I know this would haunt you. Please let me do this.”

Chan turned his head away, burying his face in Changbin’s shoulder and letting out a sob.

Jisung fired.

* * *

Jisung didn’t feel much of a difference between killing Seojun instinctively and killing Shin with intent. He didn’t know why he felt that way. He didn’t know whether or not it was because the adrenaline had yet to wear off.

But he did know that he was worried sick over Changbin.

Felix hadn’t reacted much when they’d knocked frantically on his door, dragging a bloody Changbin in tow. He just rolled his eyes, chided Chan for always getting into trouble, and let them in. One text and fifteen nerve-wracking minutes later, a tall, infuriating doctor was pushing them out of the way and cutting Changbin’s shirt off of him.

Hwang Hyunjin was one of Felix’s friends from high school. While Felix had ended up making his career in forgery, Hyunjin was a resident at the Seoul National University Hospital by day and provider of medical care for less-than-legal injuries by night. He was apparently especially close with Felix, and was willing to drop everything and rush over for him.

After he’d cut Changbin’s shirt open, exposing an angry, red hole on his right side, Hyunjin glanced back up at the three of them appraisingly.

“Felix, stay. You two, you’re hovering. Get out,” he said, pointing to the door of the spare bedroom they were in.

Jisung’s temper flared.

“How dare you,” he seethed, stepping towards Hyunjin and shaking off Chan’s hand when he tried to hold him back. “I haven’t slept in god knows how long, Changbin was _kidnapped_ less than a day ago, Chan and I had to infiltrate a jo-pok’s warehouse, and I just _killed_ a man. All to get Changbin back. I’ll kill again before I let some stranger tell me I have to leave him.”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow wordlessly, seeming less than impressed. Jisung wanted to smack the smug look right off of his face.

“He’s right that it’s been a long and stressful past few days,” Chan said placatingly, coming up behind him and rubbing his arms soothingly. “We’ve been through the ringer trying to get him back. We’ll stay out of your way, but please let us stay.”

He still looked dubious, but Hyunjin gave a short nod and turned back to his work. Jisung’s anger over how dismissive he was of them subsided when he saw the concentration on his face as he looked over Changbin’s injury. No matter how abrasive he was, Changbin was probably safe in his hands, so Jisung let himself be guided to the far end of the room.

Warm, steady arms wrapped around him.

“He’ll pull through,” Chan murmured in his ear, squeezing him tighter. “He’s strong.”

Jisung melted into Chan’s touch, and let out a shaky breath. Chan was right.

He had to be.

They stood together, entwined in each other, while Hyunjin worked on Changbin. Jisung noticed that Chan tried to avoid looking at Changbin’s wound as much as possible. He himself didn’t mind the blood, but his stomach lurched at the thought of Changbin being in pain, so he tried to focus on Changbin’s face as much as possible. He’d been conscious but woozy on the drive to Felix’s, his face screwed up in pain, and the first thing Hyunjin had done was give him some sedatives.

It was strange to see him look so peaceful, knowing that he’d just been shot. Jisung could almost pretend that he was only sleeping.

It took less than an hour of Hyunjin’s poking and prodding and stitching before he sat back, satisfied with his efforts. Jisung, assuming it was safe to come closer at that point, padded over, peering curiously at the bandaging over where the wound had been.

Hyunjin glanced up at him, and then continued wiping his hands clean.

“Bullet went clean through,” he said without looking back up. “He’s lucky; it missed his organs. I used dissolving stitches, so you’ll just need to change the bandages as he bleeds through them over the next several days.”

Beside him, Chan let out a big breath, and Jisung felt himself sigh along with him. He almost felt like stumbling with the daze of having such a huge weight lifted from his shoulders.

Changbin was going to be alright.

He found Chan’s hand without thinking, and Chan gripped his fingers tightly. They didn’t need to speak to communicate their relief.

“I don’t have the equipment to make a makeshift IV,” Hyunjin continued, getting to his feet and stretching with a wince. “So your biggest concern from now on is blood loss. He’ll wake up soon, and you’ll want to get him water, juice, whatever to help him replenish the blood.”

Jisung nodded wordlessly. He felt weirdly like crying, and couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“I have some prescription painkillers that I’ll leave with Felix, the instructions are on the bottle,” Hyunjin added. “Can I see your hand?”

The last bit was directed at Chan, who shifted his weight sheepishly but held out his left hand for Hyunjin to inspect. There was a swollen, purpling bruise covering Chan’s index finger, once that Jisung was only just now noticing. He winced.

“Broken,” Hyunjin announced, after a few seconds of poking it while Chan grimaced. “I’ll splint it, just keep that on for a few weeks.”

The splint only took a few minutes for him to put on. It made Chan’s finger look goofy enough that Jisung would have laughed if he had the energy to do so.

Hyunjin yawned so loudly his jaw cracked, suddenly looking so much younger and smaller than he had earlier. “I’m gonna head out now, try to catch some sleep before my shift starts.”

Chan stepped forward to clasp his hand firmly. “Thank you,” he said warmly.

Jisung let Chan and Felix see Hyunjin out, opting instead to drag a chair over to the side of Changbin’s bed. It felt like it had been years since he’d last seen his face, even though he knew rationally it had been less than a day.

“Take your time, Binnie,” he said softly, reaching out to take Changbin’s hand between his. “We’ll be here when you wake up.”

* * *

When he woke up to Chan and Jisung’s faces hovering over him, Changbin was half afraid he was dreaming.

“Hey, Binnie,” Chan soothed, squeezing his hand. “We’re here, it’s not a dream. We’ve got you.”

He didn’t remember saying that out loud.

Jisung laughed. “You’re on some heavy-duty meds, Binnie.”

He frowned, concentrated, and asked, “What happened?”

Guilt flashed over Chan’s face, and he shifted slightly. Changbin narrowed his eyes, and glanced at Jisung to see that his Chan alarm—activated only when Bang Chan was feeling sorry for things he had no control over—appeared to be going off as well.

“Jisung and I were trying to catch Shin off guard, but I fucked up a little, and he shot you,” Chan said. “I tried to get his gun away from him, but I wasn’t fast enough.”

“He shot Shin in both kneecaps after, though,” Jisung piped up, giving him a tired smile. “Felix’s doctor friend patched you up, says the bullet missed your organs.”

Changbin took in an experimental breath, feeling only the slightest of tugging sensations in his side, and let it out, nodding. He’d been shot before, but never in his side like this. But Chan trusted Felix, so he trusted his friend’s medical opinion.

He wet his lips, looking back and forth between them. To be honest, when Shin had bust down the hotel room’s door, he hadn’t really expected to see them again.

“Can you—” he started, and stopped. “Come here,” he said instead.

He wasn’t sure how to deal with the weird tightness in his chest at seeing them again, at knowing they were safe from Shin. But when Jisung crawled over him to settle in against his side, and when Chan tucked him in against his chest, he felt that tightness grow. It kept building, and it felt like there was something welling up inside him, until—

“I love you,” he said, surprising himself.

Jisung froze for a second, and Chan’s fingers paused where they’d been stroking absentmindedly through his hair. Part of him was terrified, wanted to suck the words back inside of him.

Another part of him felt a million pounds lighter, as if he’d dropped the weight of the world from his shoulders. It was the same kind of butterflies-in-your-stomach feel he got when Jisung smiled at him, or when Chan giggled and then tried to hide it. The same falling sensation he got when they touched him. When Chan kissed him.

“I love both of you,” he said, just to relish the way the words sounded, now that he’d finally said them out loud.

Jisung reached tentatively over to grab his hand. “I love you, too,” he said, voice hushed.

“Well, don’t leave me out,” Chan said, but the smile on his face was so fond and so full of warmth that it almost hurt to look at. He sat up just enough to lean over and bring their lips together, in a kiss so tender and passionate that it took his breath away. “I love you, too,” he whispered.

A poke to their shoulders made them look over at Jisung, who had wide, curious eyes and was making grabby hands at them. “Share the love,” he whined, but there was a hint of uncertainty behind his usual attempt at cuteness.

Chan leaned over Changbin to kiss him, gently and sweetly. They looked _good_ together, and _oh_ that was a feeling that Changbin definitely planned to explore, later. When Chan pulled away, Jisung’s eyes were closed, and a blush had risen on his cheeks.

“Guys, I think I’m gay,” he said, looking at them with big eyes.

Changbin snorted. “You love us, Jisung. I think that’s pretty gay.”

“Shut up,” Jisung said, but then he leaned down for a kiss, smiling against his lips.

Changbin’s heart was so full, he thought he was going to explode. He tried to speak, failed to find the words, and settled for just pulling them both in against him. Jisung giggled, and Chan chuckled, low and soft, and they snuggled in next to him as if they’d been designed to fit together. Jisung and Chan linked their hands across Changbin’s waist, and it felt _right._

A knock sounded on their door, and it swung open.

“Hope you guys are done!” Felix called, stepping in with a hand over his eyes. “I have exciting news, so let me know when you’re decent!”

“What the fuck,” Changbin whispered under his breath, but Chan just laughed.

“You can look, Felix,” he said, and Felix grinned, holding up something with a flourish.

Changbin squinted, and realized he was actually holding up _three_ somethings.

Passports.

“Ta-da!” Felix said triumphantly. “I had a bit of an interruption yesterday, but I finished them up while Changbin was knocked out!”

Changbin exchanged silent looks with both Chan and Jisung before they all broke into incredulous laughter. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that the whole escape-the-country thing felt far away.

“We finally have passports,” mused Chan, “and we’re already in Seoul.”

Jisung grinned. “Guess that means we made it, huh?”

Changbin thought back to the day it all began, when he stopped just in time in front of Jisung and hit the brakes a few seconds too late in front of Chan. There had been an instant and strange connection between the three of them, even then, but the Changbin of last week could never have predicted where he’d be right then.

“Yeah,” he agreed, a smile tugging at his lips. He pulled them both closer. “Guess we made it.”

* * *

Two days later, as they were in line to board the plane, Jisung slung his arms around Changbin and Chan’s shoulders, put on his best puppy-dog eyes, and begged, “Can I please have the aisle seat?”

Chan shrugged him off, an affronted look on his face. “I’m taller than you!” he countered. Changbin just watched them both with a grin, already knowing what was about to happen.

“But I pee when I’m nervous,” Jisung insisted shamelessly. He grabbed Chan’s shoulders and got up in his face, doing a little dance. “Please please please please please—”

“Oh my God, fine!” Chan said, throwing up his hands. “Dibs on window, then.”

They both looked over at Changbin, who just shrugged. He didn’t particularly care.

A few minutes later, they had settled into their seats—Chan by the window, Jisung kicking his legs in the aisle, and Changbin sandwiched between them. He’d be lying to himself if he said he didn’t enjoy being in the middle as long as he had them on either side. This way, he could hold Chan’s hand, but he could also put his head on Jisung’s shoulder if he wanted to nap.

Hyunjin had instructed him to get as much rest as possible, and he was pretty sure that even if he hadn’t already planned on sleeping for the whole flight, Chan and Jisung would have forced him to. Thankfully, whatever cocktail of painkillers Hyunjin had put him on were doing their job. He’d certainly felt better, but he’d also felt far worse. He knew that with enough months the bullet wound would join the ranks of the ones on his right shoulder and on his left calf from years ago.

He’d used those scars in the past to remind himself of the hell he was trapped in with the Beongjae jo-pok. Now, those scars could become a reminder for him to treasure everything—from freedom to the men by his side—that he had gained.

The plane jolted slightly as it began to move, to taxi towards the runway. To his left, Chan was glued to the window, one of his headphones in. To his right, Jisung was fully absorbed in a game of Candy Crush, though his leg was jiggling with nervous energy.

Changbin breathed in deeply. “I’ve never flown before,” he said quietly.

He felt Chan turn away from the window to look at him, and Jisung set down his phone, eyes wide.

“No way!” he gasped, a brilliant grin taking over his face. He started to bounce in his seat with excitement. “So this is all new to you, huh? Are you excited? Are you scared? I bet you’re a little bit scared! Did you know—”

Chan nudged his shoulder, and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Flying’s a bit weird, but it’s really all right. We’re here for you if you get nervous, though.”

There were so many unknowns in their future, and so many things that they still had to work through. Chan needed to work on sharing his burdens. Jisung needed to heal from his trauma. He needed to work on letting them in on his past. They all needed more time to grapple with the consequences of the past few days—of Changbin being taken, of him being shot, and most of all, of Jisung killing Shin. But they had _time_ for all of these things. They had forever.

So as he left his life in Korea forever, Jisung talking his ear off and Chan squeezing his hand, Changbin tipped his head back and smiled with the knowledge that everything would be alright.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap! i can't believe it's been almost nine months since i posted the first chapter. this fic has been such a journey for me. i've only ever really written one-shots before, and any longer stories that i started always ended up abandoned. i can't believe i've actually seen this all the way through, and it's an amazing feeling. i never anticipated this idea growing to this 50,000+ word monster! thank you to everyone who read and who commented, and to the readers who kept coming back even when life kept getting in the way of me updating. i hope you've enjoyed the ride!
> 
> this last update is bittersweet. i'm happy to have given these three the ending i think they deserved, but i'm admittedly sad to say goodbye! i think i've done all that i set out to do with these characters, which is an amazing feeling. but if you guys have any questions about things like their backstories, their relationships with each other, or aspects of their future together, please don't hesitate to let me know in the comments! i get email notifications and reply to every single one, so i'll make sure to get back to you!
> 
> thank you all again. i love you so much and i hope you've enjoyed changbin, chan, and jisung's journey as much as i have! <3


	14. Epilogue

These days, Chan made sure to get home at around four in the afternoon, when there was still plenty of time before dinner but the light had begun to take on the golden tinge of sunset.

Jisung was in front of the house when he pulled up, in the garden, with a brimmed hat shading his brow and his lips pressed together with concentration. He was wearing one of Changbin’s shirts, and the shoulders were almost comically big for him, so that the neckline slipped down enough to expose his collarbones. His skin, already tanned to begin with, glowed golden in the sun.

His beauty was resplendent in the sunlight, and Chan knew he was the luckiest man in the world to be able to come home to him every day.

Right on cue, Jisung glanced up from the magnolia tree he’d been tending to, and lit up.

“Channie!” he shouted, and dropped his gardening shears to bounce over to where the car was pulling in. As soon as Chan had put the car in park, Jisung tugged his door open, pulling him out of the driver’s seat and into his arms as he laughed. He had forgotten to remove his gloves, and Chan could feel dirt smearing across his jaw when he was pulled in for a kiss, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

When they parted, Chan pulled off Jisung’s hat to smooth a hand over his hair.

“How was your day?” he asked, and settled in for a wild ride as Jisung’s smiled widened—if that was even possible—and he started chattering away.

For their first few years, they’d lived in Paris, hoping that the size of the city would help grant them some anonymity. It had been an unspoken but unanimous agreement between the three of them that, given that they had spent so many years existing in fear rather than living in peace, they were going to do whatever the fuck they wanted. Every little passion they had, every little whim they dreamed of, they were going to follow. They’d had enough of doing what needed to be done in order to survive, of just scraping by from day to day.

They had made it to the ‘after’ that they’d feared they’d never have the chance to experience, and it was time for them to _live._

Jisung had been the first one to pipe up, just a few days after they’d moved into their first apartment together.

“I never got a chance to finish school,” he had said, one night when they had been piled on top of each other in a bed far too small for the three of them. His voice had been stubborn, and slightly strained, as if he’d been expecting them to argue with him. “So I enrolled in some classes.”

“Okay, baby,” Chan had said, rubbing his back reassuringly. Changbin, half-asleep next to them, had hummed his agreement, and Jisung had deflated in relief, and that had been that.

‘Some classes’ had quickly turned into a full-time career as a student. Chan hadn’t exactly expected it when Jisung had slapped the papers down on the table and announced that he was going to be majoring in poetry, but he had to admit it suited him. Despite his never-ending energy, he’d always been a keen observer, and had always had a way with words. Chan had suspected poetry had been at the top of Jisung’s list of things he’d felt he couldn’t pursue back in Busan, and he loved anything as long as it was coming from Jisung’s hands and lips, and so he had supported him in every way he could.

And Jisung had absolutely _bloomed_. He’d continued with the classes, often feverishly losing himself in his work for hours at a time, and had remained dedicated to his studies even when they’d relocated to the countryside a few years back. He was on track to graduate with two degrees—one in French Literature, and one in Poetry—in June of that year, and Chan couldn’t have been prouder of him.

Chan had been inspired by Jisung’s determination to do whatever the fuck he wanted to do, society’s expectations and earning money be damned. A week after Jisung had announced his plan to finish college, Chan had rented a room at a recording studio. He’d messed around with composing a little in college, but he’d ultimately felt it was too impractical to pursue. Changbin and Jisung had enthusiastically supported him, even when it meant him going away for hours on end, and he’d found a quiet joy in playing around with rhythms and melodies that he’d almost forgotten.

It might have been cheesy, but he’d written Jisung and Changbin a love song, had played it for them three months ago. He’d stressed all while writing it and all while playing it for them, worried that he hadn’t woven together the three themes—one representing each of them—well enough. But then the song had finished, and they’d both thrown themselves at him, and even Changbin had been crying, and, well.

He had another song for them in the works.

The nice thing about working in a studio was that he set his own hours. Jisung always finished classes in the early afternoon, and Chan tried to finish up at the studio in the late afternoon, which made it possible to come home to him like this. And this—coming home, and hearing about Jisung’s day—was one of the highlights of Chan’s daily routine.

“—which was totally wrong so I was like, ‘Actually, the marigolds reference the strength and passion of his jealousy,’ and the Professor _totally_ agreed with me and it shut that smug son of a bitch up real quick,” Jisung finished, so excited that he was speaking in a rapid-fire way that only Chan and Changbin, through years of experience, could understand. “And I really wanna know how your day was, but Binnie will kill me if I don’t send you in to help him, he told me to, so—”

Chan kissed him on the forehead, and he quieted instantly, giggling and bouncing back over towards the magnolias with one last wave.

He continued on towards the front door of their house, tipping his head back to enjoy the warmth of the sun on his face as he did.

Around this time of the year, as the spring rolled over into the summer, they ate dinner outside as much as possible. Their house—technically a villa—had a beautiful little courtyard, lined with trellises of pale pink roses that Jisung and Changbin always complained were a bitch to maintain. They’d set up an outdoor table for three in the center, and Chan would need to bring out the tablecloth so that they could eat outdoors once Changbin was finished with preparing dinner.

Changbin spent most of his time around the house these days. Chan strongly suspected that he’d been a bit of a homebody, even before. But when they’d first moved to Paris, and Jisung had started classes and Chan had started putting in time at the studio, Changbin’s gunshot wound had kept him in or nearby their apartment at all times. A few weeks into complaining about boredom, Changbin had stepped away from them briefly while they were buying groceries together and had returned with a sketchbook and some pencils, glaring at them as if daring them to say anything against it. Jisung had just asked him excitedly to draw him a sunflower, and Chan had given him a small smile.

Since then, he’d filled up no less than eleven different sketchbooks, six of which had been gifts from Chan or Jisung over the years. In the last year or so, he’d turned to painting as well as drawing. There was a sun room in their house that he’d quickly claimed as his studio, and any time that Chan couldn’t find him, he knew to go to the third floor and that he’d find him there, surrounded by finished and half-finished easels alike, lost to the world with an unconscious smile on his face.

He’d adamantly refused to try to sell or display any of his work, but Jisung had managed to wheedle him into submitting some art for a showcase at his university, and they’d gotten a few offers. Changbin had tried to hide it, but he’d puffed up with pride when some of his pieces had brought in handsome sums.

He was currently working on a series revolved around the moon and the sun. They’d teased him and called him greasy when he’d gruffly asked them to pose for some of his paintings—Chan as the moon, and Jisung as the sun—but Chan had been delighted by the idea.

(He knew Jisung was, too, even if he complained nonstop whenever he had to keep still for a painting.)

Because Changbin spent the most time around the house, he was usually the one to start preparations from dinner. Jisung had been banned from the kitchen—twice without success and then one third, final time—after setting off no less than two fires and ruining three pans, but Chan was still welcome to help and loved to do so.

He loved the easy domesticity of chopping vegetables while Changbin sautéed something on the stove, both of them moving around each other with ease after so many years. It was the moments like those ones—the quiet moments, the unassuming ones—that made his heart ache with happiness.

He’d never really known if they’d make it to an ‘after.’

And he thanked the stars, every single morning when he woke up, that they had.

When Chan stepped through the front door, the unmistakable scent of jjajangmyeon—Korean black bean noodles—hit him with a wall of nostalgia. He paused to inhale deeply, and smiled wistfully.

Changbin liked to experiment with different types of cuisine—especially French, for obvious reasons—but it was no secret that all three of them desperately missed Korea. Chan wondered, sometimes, if the fact that they could never go back to visit made the longing even worse. And occasionally, when Changbin was in a particularly sentimental mood, he would remake their favorite Korean dishes.

“Jjajangmyeon, Binnie?” he asked curiously, as he stepped into the kitchen.

Looking up from where he was chopping vegetables, Changbin gave him a small smile. Chan’s heart flipped at the sight—as it always did, no matter how many thousands of times he was fortunate enough to see it.

“Feeling a little bit quiet today,” he said simply, and Chan padded over wordlessly behind him to sneak his hands around his waist, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his neck. Quiet was a word they used to describe the way they each got, sometimes; a soft sort of melancholy, not nearly enough to outweigh their happiness but enough to mute it slightly.

They used quiet to distinguish those moments from the worse ones. The ones that happened, sometimes, and dragged them back to the desperation and pain of the past. It affected all of them, though it manifested in different ways.

Jisung still had nightmares about Seojun sometimes, though they were always quick to soothe him with their whispers. They had quickly learned not to touch him unexpectedly from behind. And there was a colder side to him, one that came out any time something came up to remind him of the two men he had killed—a certain set to his jaw and a remorselessness in his eyes that Chan had come to terms with over the years. He still loved this side to Jisung, as there was no part of him in any time or universe that could not, but he could never fully understand it.

And he knew Changbin’s side still pained him at times, even if he tried to hide it from them. The surface of the wound had healed quickly, but the bullet had penetrated deep into his muscle, and he’d spent months in physical therapy, sometimes frustrated to tears by the limits of his body. He struggled with a fear of the dark—a fear left over from how Shin had kept him blindfolded when taking him—and of being restrained in any way.

And he had a side that they saw only rarely, which he’d only first seen a full year into their time in Paris.

Changbin also had a side like Jisung’s, though for him it looked different. While Jisung’s was a quiet sharpness, a coldness, Changbin’s cold side was carefully bled dry of all feeling. It was almost self-protective, the way his body would still and his face would wipe itself blank of any emotion. It was a side that they saw only rarely. They’d seen it in full force a full year into their time in Paris; looking back, Chan would realize he’d also seen it, if briefly, the night that Jisung had confessed to attacking Seojun, when he’d said that he wouldn’t mind if Seojun died.

It had come out, as most things between them did, at night, and in bed, when the lines between when one of them ended and another began were blurred beyond recognition.

“I need to say something,” Changbin had whispered, from his usual position in the middle, and when Chan had turned to look at him, he’d been staring resolutely at the ceiling, refusing to meet his eyes. Chan had known instantly, from the carefully detached tone of his voice, that it was serious.

“Go ahead, Binnie,” Jisung had whispered, twisting around to face him properly and twining their fingers together.

The silence had dragged on for a second, while Changbin’s mouth had worked soundlessly, trying to figure out how to say it.

“I did things, in the Beongjae jo-pok, that I’m not proud of,” he had said finally, and at the name both Chan and Jisung had tensed, holding on to each other all the more tightly, as they always did at any mention of their past.

Of how quickly they’d come to losing each other.

“We know, Binnie—” Chan had soothed, but Changbin had shaken his head violently, cutting him off.

“No, you don’t,” he’d said, voice broken and face blank, and Chan’s heart had _ached_. “I didn’t just steal things, or—or hurt people. There was a man, Minsoo, and he’d tried to steal some of my product, and you couldn’t just steal from the Beongjae jo-pok, so I hunted him down, and I—”

Chan’s heart had sunk down through his chest to the pit of his belly, and he and Jisung had exchanged a look.

“—I shot him,” Changbin had finished, all of the words rushing out of him as if they’d been his last breath. Only then had he looked down at both of them, and his expression had been carefully schooled but his eyes had been full of regret and exhaustion.

Jisung hadn’t even hesitated to shimmy up the bed and take Changbin’s face into his hands.

“You are a _good man_ , Seo Changbin,” he had said fiercely, in a tone that had left no room for argument. “They would have killed you otherwise, and if they had then Chan and I would both be dead right now, I just _know_ it. It wasn’t your fault for not wanting to die.”

Changbin’s face had screwed up like he’d been trying not to cry. He’d looked over at Chan, an almost fearful look in his eyes. It had been no secret between the three of them that Chan was the closest thing to a pacifist within the group. But it had torn Chan’s heart in two, to realize that Changbin had been afraid of his judgment.

So Chan had waited for a moment before speaking, because he’d wanted to make sure he had all his words in order before doing so.

“You try to hide it sometimes,” he’d said slowly, “maybe because you think you don’t deserve to feel this way. But you love us, not just with your whole heart, but with your whole _being_.” He’d leaned over past Jisung to press their foreheads together, and had tried to pour his heart out into his words so that Changbin would understand. “You’re good, so good to us, Changbin, and you care for us so deeply and selflessly that it breaks my heart to think that you’ve been carrying this alone for so long. You are safe. You are loved. And you deserve to be happy with us.”

It had only been then that Changbin had broken down, and Chan and Jisung had spent the rest of the night soothing his tears away.

Every now and then, his expression would fall blank, just like it had that night, and he’d fall somewhere far away, where Jisung and Chan couldn’t follow. Somewhere with a man named Minsoo and a loaded gun and a choice he should have never been forced to make. During those times, Jisung and Chan’s only hope was to take him into their arms to ground him in the present and convince him that he _did_ deserve this.

And Chan…

Chan was better. He hadn’t had a major, weeks-long depressive episode in any of the years since they’d fled Korea. But there were still days where he would wake up, with Jisung and Changbin curled around him in their sleep, and feel as if someone had taken his heart out of his chest and replaced it with static. Jisung called them his Empty Days, because on those days sometimes it was all he and Changbin could do to get Chan out of bed. Sometimes it would last for just a few minutes.

Other times it would last for two or three days.

But Changbin and Jisung helped, both in reducing the Empty Days and in making them more bearable.

And he still struggled with what he now knew to call separation anxiety, which had worsened after Shin had taken Changbin. He’d made great leaps and strides, thanks to Jisung and Changbin’s compassion but also to their refusal to take any of his ‘self-sacrificial bullshit,’ as Jisung termed it. If he was out and couldn’t reach one of them, sometimes his vision would black out and he’d forget how to breathe, but they were working on it. Jisung had taught him some ways to ground himself when it felt like his world was falling out from under him. And it was helping. He was healing.

_They_ were healing.

“I love you,” Chan whispered into Changbin’s hair.

“I love you, too,” he said back quietly, patting Chan’s hands where they still rested around his waist.

“I love you too!” came Jisung’s scream from outside the window, never one to be left out, and they both reflexively smiled at the familiar sound. They were all aware of each other in that way; even when Jisung was outside and Chan was with Changbin in the kitchen, they kept the window open so that they could still see and hear each other. Chan had never once felt suffocated in their…whatever this thing between the three of them was. Instead, little things like that made him feel like everything was right where it needed to be.

If the three of them were puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together, these moments where the past came rushing back in full force were little cracks in their respective pieces. Little ways in which they were broken. But the beautiful thing about putting pieces together was that the end result was not only greater than, but completely unique from the individual parts. The tragedies of their pasts didn’t disappear while they were together, but their company made them all the more bearable.

So on days like this, where one of them was feeling—not sad, necessarily, but _quiet_ —they made sure to hug each other a little tighter. To let their touches linger a little longer.

And to tell each other ‘I love you’ again and again, every single day, for the rest of their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever smiled so hard that your face hurt? Or been so deeply, wholly happy that your heart ached? That's what I was going for.
> 
> I wasn't 100% sure if I was going to write an epilogue, but I couldn't get these emotions out of my head. The bitter melancholy and weight of past tragedies and burdens that can't be forgotten but can be lightened; the surreality of achieving a happy ending you thought you didn't deserve; and, above all, the complete, aching happiness. All this, and more, is what I wanted to convey. I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> This will officially be the last content for this fic, so thank you once more to everyone who read and who commented. I couldn't have done it without your support.

**Author's Note:**

> 3racha is gonna be the death of me


End file.
